


lavender for luck

by lovelylogans



Series: lavender for luck [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (spoiler: no mains die), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Practical Magic Fusion, Arguing, Deceit, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magic, Multi, Parental Death, Physical Confrontation, Spiders, Swearing, TS Storytime Big Bang 2018, Witchcraft, animal cruelty, you do not need to have any familiarity with practical magic to read this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 66,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Virgil's uncle can cast spells, and read fortunes, and hear houses talk through their noisy creaks. Virgil's father had, too, when he was alive, and their mother before them. Virgil was born with the family's tawny eyes, the family's pale skin, and the family's magic.And the people they fall in love with—or, at least, the ones who love them back—all die, which is why Virgil knows he can never take the chance of having that for himself.APractical Magicinspired au





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was arranged through [ts-storytime](ts-storytime.tumblr.com) on tumblr for the 2018 sanders sides big bang! i was paired up with [an-anxious-acquaintance,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/177290354786/an-anxious-acquaintance-heres-every-piece-i-did) who made just the best art for this piece that i could have asked for. this was such a fun, wonderful experience, and i'm pretty proud of the 66k words that i ended up with! please enjoy.

The day Uncle comes to their house for the first time, it’s so hot Virgil feels like a cookie left to burn in the oven. Not just _cook,_ not like the soft and chewy ones with the melty chocolate that Mom made, no. _Burn,_ like when Dad forgot he stuck a dozen store-bought bits of dough into the oven and then ended up taking Virgil and Mom out to dinner and they came back to the fire truck with the men in the big baggy suits who gave Virgil a plastic hat and helped get the big clouds of black smoke out of their kitchen.

“Hi, Uncle,” Virgil says dutifully, because Mom says that’s the polite thing to do, and yes he had to be polite, even when Uncle could care less about _societal conventions,_ whatever those were.

“Boy,” Uncle says evenly. From this angle, it looks like Uncle is smiling. “What are you doing?”

“I’m a cat.” Virgil tells him and lets out his best _meow._ He’s very good at it. Mom usually tells him he sounds just like a kitten.

“That is how most cats climb trees,” Uncle agrees, and then he adds, “You are a most bizarre and exhausting child.”

“Thank you,” Virgil preens, swinging a little from where he’s hanging by his knees from a tree branch, blood long since rushed to his head. “You are a most bizarre and exhausting Uncle.”

His mouth twitches so it looks like he’s frowning, but it’s gone, and the smile is back in an instant.

“Virgil, you look like a tomato,” his father announces from where he’s stepped out on the porch. “Dee, you look like a butternut squash.”

His face looks like he’s trying be happy, but Virgil can tell he isn’t. Dad’s worried, and scared, and upset, and it’s clear through the smile he’s trying to put on.

Uncle clearly thinks the same thing.

“What’s brought me to the,” Uncle’s lip curls, “ _lovely_ suburbs?”

“Virge,” Dad says, again trying to sound happy but Virgil could see in his shadow that he really really _really_ isn’t, “can you tell your uncle why you’re playing cat outside instead of inside today?”

Virgil swings a little more and secures his knees so he can point to the house with his free hand.

“There’s a bug,” Virgil says, pointing to the house. “Mom and Dad can’t hear it.” He clicks his tongue a few times in demonstration, and the frown that appeared on Uncle’s face when Dad stepped outside spins into a smile so fast it makes Virgil feel dizzy, makes him feel like his stomach’s dropped right out of him.

“Inside,” Dad says, before Uncle can say anything else, “now.”

He glances towards Virgil, and his voice softens. “Stay outside as long as you want, Virge, just wipe your feet off when you come in, okay?”

“Kay,” Virgil says, squinting up the tree, because he thinks he sees a squirrel.

“Usual boundaries, buddy. Don’t wander too far, okay?”

“O _kay,”_ Virgil repeats, closing his eyes and watching the red bloom up behind his eyelids.

“Children are a delight,” Uncle says dryly, probably meaning for Virgil to not hear, but he does hear. And his dad snorts and swat his arm.

Eventually Virgil climbs down from the tree and has to sit for a while to make sure his head stops spinning, because there isn’t much to do hanging upside down from a tree other than just hanging upside down. So Virgil wanders into the backwoods, humming to himself as he hops into the shadows.

A familiar amber gleam shines out from the darkness, and Virgil grins, lowering himself to the ground, holding out his hand just so, keeping perfectly still.

“Hello, Virgil,” the voice rumbles out from the underbrush, and Virgil’s grin widens.

“Hallo, Maester Sprockets.”

Maester of the Five Streets Sprockets Mrr’ow is a bit uptight for a cat, but he’s all right, mostly. He reminds Virgil of Zazu in Lion King, except Sprockets is a gray house cat and not a hornbill.

“How’re you?” Virgil offers, wiggling his fingers a bit as Maester Sprockets leans forwards, sniffing his fingers.

“You smell of bacon,” Sprockets declares, whiskers twitching.

Virgil digs in his pocket obligingly, bringing out the three pieces of bacon he’d snagged from the breakfast table that morning, breaking them into bits and laying them on the ground. Cats were very particular about hand-feeding, and Sprockets declines it from everyone except the Marcy (the girl a grade above Virgil who actually housed Sprockets.)

Virgil, upon turning five, has been gifted Hunting Rights of all birds in two streets of his choice, as he was Wise and Fierce and An Asset To Protecting The Land. Virgil doesn’t quite know how to tell Sprockets that he gets all the food he needs from his parents, and wouldn’t know how to go about hunting birds anyways. But it’s a thoughtful gift, and anyways he just has to make sure that the sunning rocks are clear and that the cats of the neighborhood could wander around without trouble.

“What’s the business?” Virgil asks, once Sprockets has sat back, licking his paw and swiping at his whiskers.

He spends time until the sun grows big and orange in the sky, brushing against the pavement, listening to Sprockets list of the various grievances of the cats of the neighborhood. Most of them were Cat Politics (Virgil had long since learned not to poke his nose into those) but there were a couple things he could help with; snakes near the sunning rocks, a troublesome dog barking all day, kids that tended to yank on cat’s tails. Virgil promises to do what he can about it, allows Sprockets to rub his face against Virgil’s knees one more time (giving the gift of smelling like Sprockets) before he rises to his feet and ambles home.

He hears the shouting even from the back porch.

“— _promise me,_ Dee, _please,”_ his father says, and Virgil shrinks down so no one can see him from the windows. He sounds really upset—almost as upset than the time Mom got into a car accident, once, and broke her arm.

A pause. “The Aunts—”

“They love Virgil, of _course,_ ” Mom says, and her voice is gentle. “Of course they do. And they’ll pitch in, I’m sure. But you’re the closest relative. _You’re_ the one in the will. If you don’t take him in—”

A pause, a sniffle, the clinking of—mugs, Virgil thinks? He can smell the tea Dad makes from the stuff in the garden. They’re almost noisy enough to cover up the clicking sound.

“You remember the story of great-aunt Seraphine, don’t you?” Dad says, after a long pause, and his voice is strained.

A snort, and Uncle says, “She was locked away in the _cellar._ If anyone would do that today—”

“Are you sure about that?” Dad says, quiet, a little dangerous. “You and I know better than anyone—the only people who understand Faes are _Faes._ ” A pause, and then, “No offense, Vi.”

“None taken,” his mother sighs. “It’s been settled for a long time. You’re technically legally bound. Let us—just let us have some peace of mind about this, at least.”

“Violet—” Uncle began, uncomfortable.

“ _Please,”_ she says, and her voice breaks, and Virgil squirms from where he is. She sounds really, really sad. She probably needs a hug. “Please. We knew this was coming, we prepared for it. In a way, we’ve all known this was going to happen since we were his age. Right now, we just—we just need your word that he’ll be _okay._ ”

“You’ve always been going after us about how he needs to be near the family’s roots,” Dad says. It sounds like he’s trying to joke. “And he will be, now. If _you_ take him in.”

There’s a long pause, and more clinking. Virgil can smell the chamomile on the air, hear the splash—someone’s refilling their cup.

“A swap?” His Dad says at last, after a break. “For old time’s sake.”

“Of course.”

Virgil figures that’s a good a time as any to stomp aggressively up the stairs, trying to rid the clumps of dirt from his shoes, before just giving up and leaving his shoes on the porch, plodding into the house in socked feet.

“Hi, baby,” his mom says, sinking to her knees. Virgil smacks a noisy kiss to her cheek, and she lifts him up in her arms. “Out a bit late, aren’t we?”

Virgil wraps his arms around her neck, pressing his cheek into her shoulder, inhaling her grown-up flowery perfumey smell. “Sprockets says there’s snakes near the sunning rocks.”

“Ah, it all makes sense now,” his Dad says, and Virgil glances over to see him turning a mug over in his hands. “Cat politics,” he says to Uncle, by a way of explanation.

“Snakes, you say?” Uncle muses. “I can handle that.”

Virgil perks up. “Really?” Good. He really doesn’t know what to do with the snakes whenever the cats complain; he doesn’t want them to _die,_ or anything.

“Dee can talk to snakes the way you can talk to cats, Virge,” Dad explains. “Since we were little kids.”

“Really?” Virgil asks, fascinated. He’s never met anyone who can talk to an animal like he can.

“Mm,” Uncle hums as he frowns at the mug, and deliberately sets it down with a delicate _clink._ “Misunderstood creatures.”

“D’you want cocoa, Virgil?” his Mom asks, setting him down at last, and Virgil squirms happily and nods.

“What do we say,” she prompts, smoothing his hair with a hand, and he tries not to sigh too loudly.

“Yes, _please.”_

“No tea?” Uncle asks mildly.

Virgil wrinkles his nose. “Tea is _gross.”_

The offended look on Uncle’s face makes his Dad laugh so hard he chokes on his own spit.

* * *

The rest of the night is kinda fun, if a bit weird. They play a new kind of game where Virgil points where he hears the clicking the loudest, and Mom and Dad roll back the rug and Uncle and Dad pry up the floorboards to see if there’s something under there. But Mom swaps between helping roll back the rug and experimenting in the kitchen, so Virgil gets to lick the batter spoons and try whatever Mom’s decided to try to make. The butterscotch cookies are pretty good; the jelly-and-mint, not quite so much.

“Not my best, huh?” Mom says, examining the jelly and mint creation critically.

Virgil pauses, and says nicely, “Maybe not with… this kind of jelly.”

His mom laughs a bit, puts it aside. “You’re right. A nice strawberry, maybe. Citrus. But probably not black currant.”

“Virgil, is it still clicking?” Dad calls.

“Yep,” Virgil calls back, snapping off a piece of lemon drop cookie and popping it into his mouth.

Dad says a naughty word.

“That’s a dollar,” Mom calls without looking, and Dad grumbles a bit more.

It keeps going. Virgil likes the cinnamon roll cookies, the almond and raspberry ones, and the brownie cookies—the chocolate-pistachio ones and the pretzel, peanut and beer ones are just kinda weird. By the end of the night, Virgil thinks Uncle and Dad pry up every floorboard in the house, Mom has filled up just about every tupperware in the house with her various experiments, and Dad owes seven dollars to the naughty word jar.

When Uncle sees the tupperware, he smiles. Just a little.

“I know, I know,” Mom says. “You can take the girl from the diner, and so on.”

Virgil tilts his head, and he’s about to ask, before hands close under his armpits and lift him in the air, making him squeal with equal parts indignation and laughter.

“Time to get ready for bed!” Dad sing-songs.

“Noooooooo,” Virgil groans, flopping his head onto Dad’s shoulder.

“Yeeeess, kiddo, it is _way_ past your bedtime,” Dad declares, and starts walking up the stairs with enough time to see Mom and Uncle leaning over the counter under the sole light still on, the pair of them staring at each other, the kitchen doused in shadows around them. Mom’s face is devoid of a smile, and Uncle’s bowler hat makes it so Virgil can’t see his face.

“Teeth brushing time, teeth brushing time,” Dad sings, depositing Virgil at the sink. “Full two minutes, buddy, I’ll be counting—”

Virgil groans, but reaches for his toothbrush and bubblegum toothpaste of _lies,_ because whoever thinks that tastes like bubblegum is a _liar._

He gets ready for bed (teeth brushed, pajamas on, so on and so on) and eventually, both parents are sitting on his bed, as his Mom reads three storybooks, and Virgil’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

“ _When the son came home that night, he stood for a long time at the top of the stairs. Then he went into the room where his very new baby daughter was sleeping. He picked her up in his arms and very slowly rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And while he rocked her he sang,”_ and his mother drew a breath, and Virgil murmured sleepily along with her soft sing-song voice.

_“I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be.”_

She leans forwards and kisses his forehead, before she takes a breath, smoothing the covers over his chest with one hand, and tries to smile.

“Virgil, I know you’re sleepy,” she says, voice soft, “but I want you to listen, okay? And remember.”

Virgil blinks the sleep out of his eyes, and nods. It’s important. He can feel it.

She takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and begins to talk.

“When I was a little younger than you are now, my parents died. And I moved to Loch Ligerion to live with my Auntie Cora and my Uncle Virgil.”

“Like me?” Virgil asks, and she smiles, realer this time, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“Yes, exactly like you. We named you after him. I moved to Ligerion, to live with my uncle, and his sisters, and his wife. And I thought my life was never gonna be the same. I was really sad, as I should have been, because I was a kid, and I lost my parents. I was so scared of Loch Ligerion, and I was convinced I’d never be happy again.”

Dad, a sad look on his face, reaches over to grip her shoulder, and she puts her hand on his for a moment, before taking a deep breath.

“But not long after that, I started kindergarten. And do you know who I met there?”

Virgil shakes his head.

“I met your dad,” she says, lifting his hand from her shoulder and kissing it, before lowering it, so they were holding hands. “I met your dad, and your uncle, and some other people too, but no one quite as important as your dad. And I am never, ever going to regret going to Loch Ligerion. Because that’s where I met your dad. And if I didn’t meet your dad, I wouldn’t have had you. And you…” she takes a wobby breath, smooths back his hair again.

“You’re the most important thing in my life, Virgil,” she says. “You and your dad. Some people didn’t like that I was in love with your dad at all, let alone the fact that we had you. But I’m always going to ignore them. Because you two… you two have made me so, so _happy,_ Virgil. The happiest day of my life was the day you were born. I have _loved_ seeing you grow into the smart, brave, funny little boy you are today, and the handsome, talented, loving young man I’m sure you’re going to be. I have loved every single day.”

“Even the day I brought all the stray cats into the house during that thunderstorm?” Virgil asks in a small voice, and his mother and father both laugh.

“Even that day,” she says. “Even when we were running around making sure soaking tomcats weren’t getting into fights and clawing up my carpets. Even the day you and your dad had the flu, and you were both puking everywhere, and I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Every single day.”

Virgil wiggles so his arms are out of the blankets, and reaches up to hug her around the neck, squeezing tight.

“I love you too,” he promises. “I love you every single day too.”

Dad’s arms wrap around them then, big and strong and tight, protective and warm. Virgil’s all squished up in between them, and Mom’s elbow is jabbing a little into his stomach, and they’re all hunched over a little awkward, but it’s the best hug ever. In the history of the world.

A pointed throat-clearing noise.

“Oh!” Dad says hastily, and there’s a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, I love you both every day too.”

They untangle, just a little, enough that they can all see each other’s faces, arms all still around each other.

“Love your Dad, but he’s a bit slow on the uptake,” Mom says, elbowing him playfully.

Dad turns to her, a joking offended look on his face, but she tilts her head at him.

“ _Who_ proposed? Asked for the first date?”

“Momma did,” Virgil says, and Mom shoots Dad a smug look.

“That’s ri-ight,” she sing-songs. “That’s right! Momma did!”

“Oh, I see how it goes,” Dad says, reaching over to tousle Virgil’s hair. “The pair of you teaming up against me, huh?”

“It’s not teaming up if we’re right,” Mom says smugly.

Dad laughs, leans over to kiss her forehead, smooths her hair back. “Yeah, okay. I’m a bit slow on the uptake. It runs in the family.” He pokes Virgil playfully in the belly. “So you’re in trouble, mister.”

Virgil wrinkles his nose, pokes him back. It kind of devolves into all of them poking each other, tickling each other, at one point Dad sweeping him up in his arms as Virgil squeals and yells as Mom chases them around the room.

“Okay,” Dad grunts at last, when all the laughter’s died down. “Okay! It’s _really_ time for bed, now, for everyone.”

“Not yet, though,” Mom protests, “everyone’s all energized, now. It is time for _cookies.”_

“Cookies,” Virgil agrees, from where he’s flopped over on Dad’s back, looking at Mom upside-down, ignoring the _click-click-click_ as he’s been doing since that early morning.

“Yeah, cookies,” Dad agrees.

“Cookies?” A voice purrs from the dark, and Virgil nearly falls from where he’s laying on Dad’s shoulder, jumping from surprise.

“Dee,” Mom laughs a little, settling Virgil with a hand. “Didn’t see you there. Warn a gal next time, would you?”

He simply inclines his head, asks “Tea?” and Dad sets Virgil down.

“Run and grab us four mugs, Virge?”

“Hot chocolate too,” Virgil checks, and Dad chuckles, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah, hot cocoa too.”

With a flick of his hand, the stove snaps on, and Virgil carefully selects four mugs from their vast, mismatched selection, setting them carefully in front of each person. The kettle settles on the stove at the same time the milk comes out from the fridge, the tea and cocoa emerging from the cupboard.

“What kind of tea, do you think?” Dad muses, tilting his head towards Mom, who’s collecting cookie-filled tupperware by hand and ducking flying items with practiced ease.

“Dealer’s choice,” Mom says, and glances ruefully at the tupperware. “There isn’t exactly a unified theme, here.”

“Black tea it is, then,” Dad says, glancing towards Uncle. “Earl grey?”

He hums and accepts the empty mug from Virgil.

“Okay, so,” Mom says, setting down the tupperware. “Being entirely honest here, I barely remember which type of cookie I put in each tupperware, so beware your choices.”

Uncle snorts, opens the tupperware nearest to him, and squints. Then he shrugs and lifts one free, snapping it in half.

Virgil’s still staring at him. Uncle’s the equivalent of Halloween; Virgil usually sees him once a year, and both are spooky in some way. Halloween because of course. Uncle, with his odd smiles and frowns, and the scales spanning the left side of his face, the snakey yellow eye—

Which flicks over to him, and the side of his mouth lifts in a smile. But not the kind of smile Mom or Dad give him; this was the kind of smile that Disney villains smiled. A Scar smile, an Ursula smile.

Virgil looks quickly towards the cookies, and shoves one into his mouth.

“Virgil, smaller bites, bud,” Dad says, setting down the hot chocolate. “Tea’s on in a second, all right?”

“Mkay,” Virgil mumbles, trying his hardest not to spew crumbs all over the table.

The kettle floats through the air and pours it, and Virgil blinks. The tea isn’t in bags, like they usually make; it’s just little bits of stuff in something.

“Loose leaf?” Uncle asks, lifting an eyebrow, and Dad gives a too-casual shrug.

“For old time’s sake,” he offers, and they both look at each other, in a way that’s too loaded for even Virgil to unparse, before they both take a sip from their mugs as Mom stirs her tea with the spoon handle, the soft _clink-clink-clink_ just off-beat with the _click-click-click_ that still sounds in the living room.

Virgil grabs a too-big handful of marshmallows and dumps it into his cocoa, avoiding the way Uncle’s gaze slid back to him.

The only sounds are sipping, quiet chewing, the occasional clink of a spoon, and the click of the mysterious beetle. Once Uncle and Dad both basically upend their mugs at the same time, wordlessly, they reach out and take the others and huddle over it.

From this angle, they’re just mirror images of each other. Dad is maybe a bit more muscular than Uncle; but without the scales or the eye in view, they look like the same person, just copied twice.

Virgil wonders what it’s like, to have a sibling like that. Dad and Uncle call each other once a week, plus the occasional weekend trip Dad and Mom take down to Ligerion to see family members while Virgil’s at a friend’s house. It’s just Mom and Dad and Virgil and the cats, here. Virgil wonders sometimes, what it’d be like to have a little brother, or a little sister. Someone to follow after you, someone who had your back, someone to share toys with. Babies are kind of noisy and smelly, though. He thinks he’s fine for now.

But sometimes, when he sees people with their siblings, he can’t help but think about it.

Because he’s supposed to have one. It’s a _thing_. Faes are supposed to have at least one sibling. _Biological counterbalance,_ he thinks one of his older cousins said—magic divvying itself up along a family line. But there’s just him.

He can’t help but think about that too.

“What’s it look like?” Dad prompts, and Uncle wrinkles his nose, sets it aside deliberately.

“Nothing we know,” Uncle says. “Mine? We both know whose strengths lie in the divinatory arts.”

Dad sighs, runs the tip of his pinky over the rim of the mug. “House,” he says. “Big one. Which means change, likely related to family. Dashes, for travel, for which you should be cautious. A wheel—strong indicators of inevitable change, a series of events. Responsibility.”

Virgil blinks, tugs at Dad’s wrist. “How’s there a wheel in his tea?”

Uncle blinks too, first at Virgil, then at Dad. “He doesn’t know tasseography?”

Dad sighs a little. “We told you last time—we’re waiting until he’s ready.”

“How will he be ready if you never let him try?” Uncle says, and nods to Virgil. “When we were his age, we read leaves daily. Go on. Take the mug. Tell me what you see.”

Virgil blinks, first at Dad, then at the mug, before tugging it carefully from his father’s hands, turning it and squinting.

“I don’t see a wheel,” he says, glancing to Dad.

“It will come with practice,” Uncle says, and the gleam of his eye is sharp and bright. “Just say what you feel from the mug, Virgil.”

Virgil turns the mug over and over in his hands, staring still. He licks his lips nervously.

“I… I think you need to be really careful,” he says, into the mug. “Something is coming. Something really big. It’s going to change for forever. And I…” Virgil swallows. He feels like the mug is leeching the heat from his hands, taking something away from him. There’s something _bad_ about the leaves, something that makes his stomach squirm like it’s full of snakes. He sets the mug away from his as far as possible.

“I don’t like it,” he whispers, and rubs his hands together, trying to shake them of the feeling.

“That’s okay,” Dad says quickly, wrapping an arm over Virgil’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s okay. That was a really great first try, Virge. You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“It’s _bad,”_ he says into Dad’s chest, and his arms tighten around Virgil.

“I know, bud,” Dad murmurs. “I know, I saw it too. I’m sorry.”

Slowly, Virgil is eased out of his Dad’s arms, plied with butterscotch cookies and even more marshmallows in his cocoa. But he sticks close to his Dad’s side, pressing against him, how warm he is; it’s the only way the snakes calm down. The mug, somewhere between Virgil hiding his face in his Dad’s chest and leaning into his side, has been placed safely away from him, the leaves dumped down the sink.

They work their way through a tupperware-and-a-half of cookies, any attempts at conversation muted and quiet, fading in and out at random. Virgil thinks the leaves might have taken any kind of energy or excitement he had—he just wants to curl up in some warm blankets and sleep, now, not listen to the clicking beetle or Mom’s attempts at small talk.

Soon enough, when Virgil’s mug is empty and he’s full to bursting with cookies and he’s nodding off against Dad’s side, he’s getting lifted up into the air, into Dad’s arms. Virgil mumbles sleepily and lays his head on Dad’s shoulder, twisting his hand into Dad’s shirt.

He drifts off before he’s even put in bed.

* * *

He wakes up to rumbling. He’s aware he’s rising and lowering, very gently, as if he fell asleep at sea, and he’s very warm. Virgil hears a slow _tha-thump, tha-thump_ under his ear, and at last blinks his eyes open.

Dad’s awake too, smiling fondly at Mom, as she keeps making the rumbling noises—snoring. The rising-lowering was where his head’s pillowed on Dad’s chest.

They’re all crammed into Virgil’s bed, the tiny twin, so Mom’s head’s pillowed on Dad’s chest too, Mom tucked between the wall and Dad, Virgil near the edge of the bed.

Virgil pats Dad’s chest, and nods towards Mom. Dad grins, rubbing a hand up and down Virgil’s back.

“Welcome to my world,” he whispers to Virgil. “Let’s try to not wake her up, huh? She needs sleep.”

Not waking up Mom involves wriggling very carefully off the bed, and helping Dad sneak a pillow under her head while he wriggles even more carefully out of the bed and helping tuck her in too. It is a lot of wiggling and trying not to laugh at each other and shushing each other whenever it seems like the other one is close to breaking the silence. Virgil even kisses her on the forehead the way she always does to him.

They wander downstairs, to where Uncle is already sitting, sipping from another mug of tea—no tea leaves, which makes Virgil shiver with relief.

Maybe he’s shivering because the clicking’s even louder today. Maybe that’s why. He can’t always tell.

“All right, well, I’ll make some breakfast,” Dad says, and adds, “Dee, how about Virgil shows you the sunning rocks, so you can talk to the snakes while we get a few things sorted out here?”

Uncle narrows his eyes at Dad, but Virgil is already going to put on his shoes.

“Careful, all right?” Dad tells Virgil. “Dee’s not used to walking with kids, you’re gonna have to show him the ropes.”

Uncle scoffs, but follows Virgil out onto the porch. Virgil, absentminded, reaches out and takes his gloved hand as they walk down the steps.

“What are you doing,” he says, in a flat, suspicious tone, practically recoiling, but not letting go of Virgil’s hand.

“I’m s’posed to hold hands whenever I have to cross streets,” Virgil says, and gestures to the land beyond the yard. “Street.”

Uncle shakes his head, seeming confused, but doesn’t let go of Virgil’s hand as Virgil leads him across the street, towards the sunning rock near the opening of the neighborhood, where the sign welcomes people to Russett Grove. The sign provides the only shadow—even now, there is a familiar cat lounging in the sun, opening a baleful yellow eye at Virgil, flicking her tail, before closing it again.

“Somewhere around here,” Virgil says at last, going to sit next to the cat. “There’s snakes.”

“Yes, I hear them,” Uncle says absentmindedly, crouching down. His tone’s changing; the _s_ ’s are getting longer, a bit more pronounced, and his snakey eye seems to flicker in the light.

“Hello, snakes,” Uncle rumbles, and even though it’s just as bright and sunny as the day before, Virgil could swear that there was a shadow dropping, curling around him, dousing the summer’s light, highlighting his scales. The familiar cat’s hackles rise; Virgil puts a hand into her ruff, as much comfort as it is caution.

Uncle smiles, wide and cutting, and Virgil’s hand tightens in the cat’s fur.

And then he hisses.

Seeming to emerge from the rocks themselves, tens, looking like hundreds of slimy, sinuous bodies writhed free, crawling from stone, through the grasses, from the trees, with silent, eerie speed. They wrestle, twist, break, but always come forth, to them, to the rocks. It’s like they’re a single, homogenous _mass,_ but Virgil can see all the separate snakes making it up, and Virgil doesn’t even move as the cat yowls and sprints away. The snakes slip over pebbles, the road, converging all as one, twining together, to Uncle, to him alone. Virgil knows that it’s morning, that the sun around them is beating strong on their necks and backs, but it’s like they’re in the depth of a forest, in the depths of the sea, surrounded by great swathing shadows and the dark, and Virgil doesn’t know what’s there, what’s hiding in the _dark_ —

“You,” Uncle murmurs, voice like wind rustling the grass, and all at once, the snakes fall still, and Virgil tries to stop shaking.

“My nephew has dominion over this land,” Uncle says, soft and dangerous all at once, and gestures to Virgil with a yellow glove. “The cats have territory upon this rock. Find elsewhere to warm your blood.”

At once, all the snakes hiss; to Virgil, it sounds like dissent, disagreement, and he sees a few triangular heads turn to him, show fangs gleaming with—with venom, he thinks, and curls tighter on the rock. He’s not running. He’s terrified but he’s not running. He thinks that would just make things worse.

“ _Elsewhere,_ ” Uncle intones, and waves a dismissive hand; all at once, the mass disbands, separating into singular scaled bodies again, hissing as they slither away, back, down into the receding dark. Virgil can feel the sun heating the top of his head again. _Good,_ he thinks distantly—he’s very cold all of a sudden.

Virgil looks up as Uncle steps, blocking the sun, face looming above him unreadable. He looks… otherworldly. Different. Like he’s something to be feared. Like he isn’t even _human._

Virgil opens his mouth, and what comes out is “Did it hurt?”

Uncle’s snakey eye narrows.

“Did it hurt,” Virgil repeats, and gestures to the left side of his own face—where the scales sit on Uncle’s face.

Uncle smiles. “That’s not what normal people usually ask.”

“We’re not normal people,” Virgil points out. “Did it?”

He smiles wider. “Not at all,” he says, and offers Virgil his hand.

Virgil stares a bit longer, before he takes it, and they make their way back to the yellow house, where Dad is whistling as he plates up eggs and bacon.

“How’s the rock?” Dad asks, nudging a plate of two sunny-side up eggs and bacon shaped into a frown towards Uncle, who frowns at it.

“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents,” Uncle says, stabbing at the yolk of one of the eggs, so the runny yellow leaks all down the plate. “We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far.”

Virgil tilts his head; he gets toast, cheesy scrambled eggs, and bacon set in front of him as Dad asks, “Do I have to guess why you’re quoting H.P. Lovecraft at my five-year-old son?”

“Who’s H.P. Lovecraft?” Virgil asks, picking up his fork and nudging at the little toast triangles.

“An author,” Dad says, distractedly ruffling Virgil’s hair. “What, did something go wrong with the snakes? Should I be worried you’re going to try to call Cthulhu upon my neighborhood?”

Uncle smiles, all pointy teeth, and shoves most of an egg into his mouth; Dad scowls and flicks at his bowler hat, so it sits crooked on top of his head.

“Snakes left,” Virgil offers, because he doesn’t really know how else to describe the temporary eclipse that happened. “I think they know the sunning rock’s for cats now.”

“Well, that’s something,” Dad says. “Apple juice or OJ, Virge?”

“Apple, please,” Virgil says dutifully. The further he is from the rock, the easier it is to believe that it was just that simple; the snakes understood, the snakes left. Uncle doesn’t look nearly so threatening with his bowler hat crooked on his head and a bit of egg yolk smeared on his cheek.

A Lion King cup full of apple juice gets set in front of him, and Mom wanders in, sleepily tugging her hair back into a braid.

“Hi, lovey,” Mom says, bending down to smack a kiss to Virgil’s cheek, and she straightens, smiling, as Dad approaches swiftly. He’s twisting his hands all together, looking at her rapturously.

“Hi, lovey,” she tells him, a bit more teasing, and he leans in, cupping her cheek, and kisses her.

Usually their kisses are quick little things, whenever they think Virgil’s watching; but right now, they’re doing a long kiss, a movie kind of kiss, where their heads are tilting and stuff, and Mom’s hand comes up to his neck before they break apart. Virgil realizes he’s probably supposed to say “Gross!” or cover his eyes or something, but it’s just… nice, he guesses. That they love each other.

“Well,” Mom says, flustered. “Good morning.”

“Hi,” he says, then, “Sorry, um, your toast might be a bit burnt, I’ll eat it instead if you want—”

He bustles over to the stove, and Mom sits down, stealing a sip from Virgil’s cup even as Virgil squawks in protest.

Soon enough, Dad and Mom are sitting next to each other, stealing bites off each others’ plates and sipping from each other’s cups. Virgil defends his apple juice from all sides, and even manages to take one of Mom’s precious bits of bacon. Dad does eat the more-burnt bits of toast, like he promised.

“So,” Uncle says idly, once everyone’s plates are cleared, “what are we to do today?”

Dad and Mom look between each other, and they both shrug.

“Honestly,” Dad says, “we didn’t really expect to get this far, so.”

Uncle lets out a put-upon sigh. “Well, what do you _usually_ do for an idyllic summer day, in the _lovely_ suburbs?”

Dad smiles. It is not a particularly nice smile. It is the kind of smile he gets whenever he has put glitter into the laundry detergent or dye in the shampoo. “So, you want a nice little slice of suburban life, right? That’s what you’re saying?”

Uncle had the distinct expression of someone who had wandered directly into a trap and had no way out of it.

 

Virgil thinks the day is really nice, even if Uncle is dragging his feet and sighing loudly in the background of everything they do that day. They go to the park, and have a picnic lunch, and Dad and Mom even play a game of tennis even though they’re both _really_ bad at tennis, and Virgil gets this weird iced drink from Starbucks, and Mom is wearing this weird matching sweatsuit thing Virgil’s never seen her wear and Dad is wearing an eyesearing teal shirt and _cargo shorts._

“It’s a shame we’re not in the middle of the school year, we could have taken you to a PTA meeting,” Mom chirps happily at Uncle as they pull up to a Sonic, and Uncle gives her a halfhearted glare from where he’s also stationed in the backseat.

“You’ve made your point.”

“Have we?” Mom asks, amused, turning to look at Dad, who is perusing the menu. “I’m not sure if we have.”

“Can I get a grape slushie?” Virgil asks.

“What do you say?” Dad prompts.

Virgil sighs, and says, “Can I get a grape slushie, _please?_ ”

“You sure can,” Dad declares. “What kind do you want, _wifey_?”

“Oh, I’m not sure, _hubby,”_ Mom says, wiggling around to see the menu better.

That’s a thing that’s been happening today too. The really ridiculous pet names. They haven’t repeated one yet.

Eventually, everyone gets a slushie, even Uncle, and they go home, where Virgil and Dad play soccer in the yard as Mom makes lemonade from scratch, over a stove with lemons and sugar, sticky and sweet. Virgil can taste it on the air.

“Do you usually play soccer?” Uncle asks idly, and Virgil shakes his head even has he chases after Dad, who is dribbling the ball back and forth.

“Nah,” Virgil says easily.

Dad flashes a grin at Uncle, and adds, “Just figured we’d round out the whole experience, right?”

Mom comes out then, with glasses of lemonade and sections of oranges, along with last of the many tupperware containers of cookies. She’s since changed out of the sweatsuit and more into her normal attire, a button-down tucked into a pair of jean shorts, the ones Virgil helped cut the hem; he can see from how crooked they are.

Uncle sighs but takes his glass, and a cookie. “The pair of you are unsufferable as ever.”

“Aw, we love you too,” Mom says. “Virge, show me your hands.”

Virgil does, and she hands him a wet wipe to get rid of the dirt before he can grab a cookie, too.

Uncle sticks the orange piece in his mouth, looking kinda silly with the orange skin covering his teeth, giving him a big, uniform smile. Virgil does the same, enjoying the sharp-sweet taste of it.

“And, uh, sweetheart,” Mom says, and tugs lightly at Dad’s sleeve. “We… we have a kitchen issue.”

He blinks. “That’s usually more your area than mine.”

“I should rephrase,” she says. “We have a kitchen issue that’s more aligned with your side of the family’s expertise.”

Uncle stands, then, and Virgil trails after, grabbing another orange slice, and coming to a stop in the doorway.

_CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK,_ the beetle shrieks, it’s loud, it’s louder than it’s ever been, louder and faster.

Mom, only semi-calmly, opens up the fridge door and brings out a bag.

“Marinating chicken for dinner,” Mom says. “Already rotted.” She gestured, vague. “Rotted meat, spoiled milk, rotted fruits and vegetables. Thought about making eggs for dinner, but, well. We only had a couple. Cracked one to see.” She holds up a bowl.

“No yolk,” Dad says, hushed, and exchanges glances with Uncle. He reaches out, takes another one, and cracks it.

Same thing. White and runny, no yolk.

“We went on a grocery run three days ago, this shouldn’t—” Mom begins, and rubs a hand over her eyes.

“It’s starving us out,” Uncle murmurs. “Wants us to leave.”

“Delivery,” Dad suggests, and Uncle shoots him a Look.

“You think you can outsmart it?”

“I’m not _suggesting_ —” he began heatedly, before he cut himself off, and took a breath. “I’m not suggesting outsmarting it,” he says, calmer. “I’m considering just—ignoring it. So, we’re out of food. We’ll order a pizza. Chinese. Whatever.”

Uncle pauses, and nods, putting up his hands. “Okay,” he says. “Fine, fine. Order food in. I’m sure _nothing_ will happen.”

They end up ordering Chinese. Waiting for the food to come, they throw out the spoiled food, and Uncle shows Virgil how to make a quarter appear and disappear in his hands, just a quick bit of sleight of hand. Trickery, instead of actual magic. Virgil thinks it’s kind of funny, but his hands aren’t quite big enough to get away with it yet.

Uncle pulls a quarter from behind his ear and flicks his fingers, making it vanish yet again. “As with all things, it never takes practice,” he says, before twisting the quarter into thin air.

Virgil nods, and soon after, the doorbell rings.

It’s another quiet meal; Mom and Dad split a huge plate of General Tso’s, while Virgil eats his honey chicken and white rice, and Uncle eats lo mein.

“Oh,” Mom says, and, “Honey, did you order cookies? We’ve still got the last of a Tupperware to get through.”

Dad blinks, peeking in. “Nope,” he says. “Must be a complimentary kind of thing. Replaces the fortune cookies, I guess. Dee, you won’t want any of these—almond and coconut.”

Uncle’s face twists, and he sticks his nose into the air in disgust.

“Have we got any chocolate?” Virgil asks, and sacrifices his almond-and-coconut restaurant cookie for extra of Mom’s, because Mom’s cookies are the best cookies.

He ignores the clicking, like he’s done for the past couple days. It gives him the same _bad_ feeling the tea leaves had, except worse, and all Virgil can do is try to tune it out.

“Okay,” Dad says, and checks the time. “Virge, bud, it’s getting to be that time. Can I trust you to brush your teeth by yourself?”

Virgil sighs, but nods, getting up from the ground and plodding grudgingly to the bathroom. He does brush his teeth, if a bit more carelessly than he would if Dad had been watching, and changes into pajamas.

Mom and Dad come in again, this time Mom reading _Guess How Much I Love You._

“Do you like your Uncle, Virgil?” Dad asks, after the story, and Virgil blinks at him.

“He’s weird,” Virgil decides. “But funny.”

Dad smiles, and smooths Virgil’s blanket over his chest. “Weird but funny,” he says. “That’s a pretty decent review, I guess. We’re twins, you know?”

“Mhm.”

“Growing up, I just had him. My Dad—” he pauses, fiddles more with the blanket’s edge, before Mom’s hand closes over his fingers. “Our father died when I was little, y’see, and our mother was never really the same after that. It was me and Dee, against the world. And your Mom, of course, but—but not quite in the same way, you know? He’s… yeah, okay, he’s weird. And a lot of people don’t really get that about him. They see the eye, and the scales, and he treats people… not quite the best, sometimes. But he really cares about me—and your Mom, though that took a bit of time, and you, of course. In his own special, weird, funny way. It’s hard to spot sometimes. But it’s still there.”

“Okay,” Virgil says.

“He kind of speaks his own language, and it takes a while to get it. Even I’m not sure I’ve got him right a hundred percent of the time. And he can be kind of… unnerving, I know. I saw your face when you got back from sunning rock this morning. I guess—” He pauses, and swallows. “I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes when someone loves you, they want the best _for_ you. You and the person that loves you might disagree on what that is.”

“Like how?” Virgil asks, and Mom and Dad glance between each other.

“Well,” Dad says, “Like your Mom. Dee really, really didn’t want me to even _date_ your Mom, let alone marry her.”

“What?” Virgil asks, scandalized. “But you two love each other!”

“And he sees that now,” Dad promises. “He might not… understand, but he _understands._ Does that make sense?”

“Nope,” Virgil says.

“What your Dad’s saying is, your Uncle’s heart’s usually in the right place, he just goes about things in a really unusual way, most of the time. And sometimes he’s really wrong about it, and you have to do what’s right for you anyways.” Mom says. “And by sometimes, I mean just _sometimes._ He might not show he loves you like we do, or take care of you like we do, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _love_ you. Right?”

“Right,” Virgil says, mostly just deciding to go along with it.

“And, okay, look,” Dad adds, “Most of the time, I was the one taking care of him. Dee… well, he doesn’t really quite know how to handle _people_. He’s not very good with people. But he still—”

“Loves me,” Virgil says. “Right.”

Dad looks… relieved? He smiles, and smooths back Virgil’s hair, leaning forwards to kiss him on the forehead.

“And I love you too,” he says. “So much.”

“Didn’t even have to prompt you into it today,” Mom teases, nudging him with her elbow so she can kiss Virgil on the forehead too. “Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you both too,” Virgil says.

Years and years later, Virgil will be incredibly grateful that that’s the last thing he says to the pair of them that night.

Because in the midst of the night, he’s shaken awake by rough hands.

“What’s happening?” Virgil mumbles.

“It’s me,” Uncle says, gruff, and Virgil squeaks as Uncle lifts him clumsily out of bed, before sometimes scratchy’s draped over his head.

“What’s going on?”

“Do _not_ take that off,” Uncle says sharply, and Virgil feels himself getting jostled as Uncle walks down the hallway, down the stairs.

“Why, what’s happening?” Virgil asks, anxious. “What’s going on, what’s—?”

There’s more fumbling with Virgil, a word that gets a dollar for the naughty jar, and then a blast of warm summer’s night air as Virgil is brought out, set down on the sidewalk, and at last the scratchy thing is removed from his face—

Virgil squints, bringing up a hand to avoid the wash of blue and red, the cars, the ambulance.

“What’s happened,” Virgil asks, tugging at Uncle’s pantleg, a lump growing in his throat, making his voice scratchy and desperate. “What’s going on, I don’t—”

Uncle crouches, opens up Virgil’s fist, and drops something into it.

Virgil squints, and holds his hand flat open.

It’s a beetle.

A dead one.

Virgil, all at once, understands what it means—the red and blue lights, the ambulance outside, why Uncle didn’t let him look, the beetle, the beetle, _the beetle_ —

And Virgil—

Virgil _screams._


	2. Chapter 2

When Virgil turns six, he gets his first tarot deck.

Since his birthday is so close to the winter solstice, it means it’s one of the two times of year that his cousins and aunts and uncles flood Loch Ligerion, so they’ve filled up Auntie Cora’s diner for Virgil’s birthday dinner. Faes, it seems, do not know how to be quiet or even slightly innocuous—Virgil is the sole anomaly in that regard, apparently.

But his birthday’s pretty nice. Cora doesn’t even add an extra helping of fruit or vegetables to his meal, and the cake’s three layers of chocolatey delight. She’s even let a few cats of the town into the diner, since it’s just family.

The little gift-wrapped box gets tossed before him, and Virgil blinks up at Uncle, sure that there is frosting on his face.

“Happy birthday,” Uncle says gruffly. “It’s time you had this.”

Virgil blinks, but rips through the paper to reveal a box, which he opens. (The wrapping paper gets dropped to the ground, and immediately batted around by several of the cats.)

“They’re cards,” Virgil says.

“ _Tarot_ cards,” Uncle corrects. “You can read them.”

One of the great-uncles glances over and smiles at Uncle approvingly. “Very traditional.”

He inclines his head, and Virgil spreads out the cards on the soda counter, blinking at them. _Ace of swords, death, upside-down tower._

“How?” Virgil asks, looking up, and he smiles.

“You’ll be learning later,” Uncle says.

“Oh, let him have a night, won’t you?” Cora says good-naturedly, patting Virgil’s cheek and then handing over a napkin. “It’s his birthday. Boy’s meant to eat more cake than is good for him.”

Even after all her years in Loch Ligerion, Auntie Cora has the edges of a Southern drawl clinging to her words. Virgil’s pretty sure that among the permanent residents of Loch Ligerion, he and Cora are the only ones who can withstand any kind of look from Uncle, frown or smile, and not flinch. Cora helps Virgil with his math homework whenever he sits at the soda counter, sets out bowls of water for the cats, and sneaks butterscotch candies into his bag and pockets, and always sends him the extra baked goods they have at the end of the day at the diner if he or Uncle wants them, free of charge.

Auntie Cora’s kind of the best.

(Best of the Aunts, Virgil thinks, but he wouldn’t tell the other two Great-Aunts on his mother’s side that; they have their perks, but they mostly pinch his cheeks a lot. He figures it’ll get better when he’s older.)

The tarot cards lead into the rest of the gift-giving; Virgil gets a box full of dog-eared adventure books from Great-Aunt Margot, and Legos from Great-Aunt Vivian, and all kinds of herbs and magic ideas and puzzles and stuff from his uncles and aunts, and his cousins got him some pretty awesome new toys. All in all, it’s a pretty decent haul, but Virgil knows most of this is probably gonna be rolled into Christmas—it’s one of the perils of having a December birthday like he does.

After dinner, Uncle, Virgil, and the assorted Faes all start the walk back to the ancestral family home—where Virgil’s lived since that summer night of despair.

Where Faes have lived for generations and generations.

House Fae is an imposing, massive behemoth of a building, sequestered away in the forest, away from the prim neighborhoods of Ligerion proper, as if the other houses were scared of it, the way their occupants were afraid of Faes. The house is made with dark, beautiful wood, and with green glass windows so thick that it hid those within from any peering eyes, and the spires and towers that sprawled haphazardly upwards, the highest room in the highest tower being Virgil’s. The house itself seems like magic, or maybe it’s because Virgil hasn’t lived there long enough to get the hang of it, but he swears rooms shuffle around, appear and disappear at will. It’s huge, and easy to get lost in, and there’s so many hidden objects and _things_ to learn about that it makes Virgil feel like a detective in one of the adventure books he likes so much. Maybe it’s because Faes have lived there so long; it couldn’t help but absorb up the magic.

Virgil shivers. Loch Ligerion’s foggy and rainy more often than not, even at the height of the summer solstice, and it just gets chillier and chillier in the winter. He can see his breath crystallizing in the air.

Living in Loch Ligerion with Uncle’s _way_ different than living in Russett Grove with his parents. For starters, Uncle doesn’t care even a little if Virgil brushes his teeth or goes to bed on time or says please and thank you. Actually, as far as Uncle cares, Virgil can eat chocolate cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all he’d do would be to cut a piece for himself. (Virgil knows; he’s done it. Twice.)

His cousins (and himself, prior to That Night) delight in their bi-annual chance to revel in a life surrounded by other magic-users; they all stay up to the latest hour they can handle, eat just fries for dinner, and try the kind of group spells that they can’t manage without a group. The older cousins break into liquor cabinets and stride into bars and run with the locals—the ones brave enough to chance an outing with a Fae, anyway. The ones whose families don’t close up the shutters and stock up on food so they don’t have to leave while the swarm of tawny-eyed Faes had the run of the town.

He burrows a little deeper in his coat and picks up the pace to catch up with his older cousins, eager to get to his room and put all his new books in his bookshelves and play with the new puzzles. Virgil’s already getting disapproving glances and pitying head shakes—apparently, he’s not wild enough for Fae standards. He’s supposed to be, like, out dancing in the moonlight and running down the streets, or something, not just sitting in his room. Faes are supposed to be headstrong, and willful, and know how to have _fun._ Or something. Virgil thinks Legos are pretty fun. Puzzles too.

Someone’s hand tousles in his hair, and he grimaces, looking up to see cousin Gillian, who is a Proper Fae, Uncles and Aunts alike tutting their approval. Faes are proud when their children are impossible to control, and Gillian’s the prime example. Gillian’s impossible to ignore. People look at her and get so dizzy they _faint,_ sometimes. She’s passed half her classes with her brilliant smile and a toss of her pretty red hair, without having to do a single exam, or even a bit of homework. She broke hearts the way other people broke kindling for firewood; apparently, she’s such an expert at it now that some people don’t even know what’s happening until they’re left in one big emotional heap. Girls would be girls, and boys would be boys, all the parental Faes figured: most of their advice centers around not getting attached.

Gillian’s never in danger of that.

“C’mon, squirt, aren’t you gonna do anything _fun_?” Gillian teases.

“Puzzles _are_ fun,” Virgil repeats stolidly.

She grins at him, tawny eyes flashing. “You know what I mean _.”_

Virgil shrugs. “Not really,” he says honestly.

She nudges him. “You know,” she says. “Loch Ligerion’s, like, all quaint and towny and shi- _stuff_ , but the people here are, well. You know.”

As they walk by, someone peeks out of the window, and gasps when she sees Virgil and Gillian looking, shutting the shutters hard.

“Yeah,” Virgil says.

She nudges him again. “It’s gotta bug you, right?”

Virgil pauses, and shifts. “Yeah,” he says, a bit quieter. First grade has been… rough, to put it nicely.

“So,” she says, and, even louder, “ _So!_ Do something about it!”

Virgil blinks up at her. “Like what?”

Gillian pauses, and an absolutely unholy grin breaks across her face.

“So, we’ll bug them back.”

When the Uncles and Aunts (and Uncle especially) sees Gillian and Virgil making to-go mugs of cocoa (Gillian splashes something in hers that smells sharp and spicy) they look… approving.

“Near the solstice,” Gillian says easily, and her mother practically _preens._

“Of course,” she says. “Show Virgil the ropes, huh?”

“Do something too complex,” Uncle adds.

Gillian flashes a quick, bright smile that would probably look reassuring on anyone else. “C’mon, don’t you trust me?”

With that witty quip, they bow out of the house to the cackles of the elder Faes, Gillian wiggling a little in her coat, copying Virgil.

“Right,” she says seriously. “To business! Who’s the worst of the worst around here?”

Virgil’s nose wrinkles. “The Kavanaghs,” he says immediately.

The Kavanaghs spearhead the whole _beware Faes!_ movement, and they’re not just fearful about it like most of the town is, they’re downright _mean_ about it. No one really plays with Virgil, and most kids in Virgil’s grade cross their fingers or make the sign of the cross whenever he comes near them, like it’s some kind of protection. The bravest of them (Jimmy Kavanagh, Virgil’s age, leading the pack) follows Virgil home from school, at just the right distance behind so they could turn and run. Jimmy Kavanagh liked to pitch stones or apples at Virgil, but they could never land a hit on him; they always land at Virgil’s feet. Jimmy helped make sure that no one would use a pencil or crayon after Virgil had touched it. No one sat next to him in the cafeteria, or during assemblies, and sometimes girls shrieked whenever Virgil was around. Sometimes, if Virgil was feeling particularly nasty, he’d think about turning around and shouting “Boo” and seeing how they’d all jump. He tells Gillian all this as they walk towards the Kavanagh house, near the opening of the town, about the furthest from Fae house a house could be.

“I did that a lot,” Gillian says thoughtfully. “Shouted _boo_ at the townies _,_ I mean. One boy pissed his pants and got way more humiliated than I ever was.”

Virgil giggles, and she grins, nudging him.

“There’s that smile,” she says, pleased, and lays a bare hand on the back of his neck.

This is something Gillian can do too; with a skin-to-skin touch, she can make anyone fall in love with her, or make them so happy they cry, or so sad they can’t do anything other than just lie there. She’s smooth with it, too—Virgil’s pretty sure she’s being so obvious about it because he’s family, and Virgil can feel the sheer _giddiness_ welling up inside of him, making him laugh and laugh and laugh like he’s heard the funniest joke in the world. It’s a rare gift—probably another reason all the Uncles and Aunts love her so much.

Virgil’s gifts are mostly just talking to cats and being an only child, so Gillian’s kind of winning that category of life.

Virgil’s still giggling every few steps by the time they approach the gas station and the house behind it—each Kavanagh, when they graduate high school, immediately enters the family business as the owners of the gas station and de facto mechanics of the town—and huddle down behind a gas pump, peering at the house. Their lights are still on, and Gillian grins over at him.

“Ready to bug ‘em back?”

“How?” he asks.

Gillian nudges him. “You’re a Fae,” she says simply. “You’ve got a lot of power, V, I can tell. You’re young, and Uncle Dee said nothing too complicated, so just… _wish_ for it. I’ll help.”

She offers her hand. Virgil takes it, closes his eyes, and _wishes._

Because wanting is magic; wishing is magic. It’s the magic he knows how to do best. He’d learn, in time, that it was dangerous and fiddly and uncertain, but he didn’t know that yet. This is just a night of mischief and chaos with his cool older cousin—he doesn’t know how to fear his own power yet.

He wishes so hard he feels it racing up and down his vertebrae, dancing in his skull. He wishes so hard he can feel it in his frozen nose and his wiggling toes and his gloved fingers. He wishes so hard he can feel the air crackling with magic.

He hears the shrieking start up, caterwauling basically, lots of yelling, and Gillian snickers, shoving him. “Run run run run!” She gasps, and they shoot out into the night, feet slapping loud against the pavement, Virgil’s heart pounding loud and clear in his ears as he laughs, loud and free, to the dark starless sky, away from the house with spiders crawling from their light fixtures.

* * *

When Virgil is seven, he casts a spell for the first time.

It is also one of the first acts of rebellion of his very young life. The sole rule of the Fae house was to not touch the grimoires and spellbooks; anything and everything else Virgil could think of was fair game. But he isn’t allowed to touch the old wizened books, full of arcane rituals and potion recipes and elaborate curses. Stuff he’s supposed to be too young for.

And he technically _doesn’t_ touch the spellbooks or the grimoires.

He sits in the massive family library, with his eyes closed, and thinks about how convenient and nice it would be if that _one_ page he really _really_ needed just so _happened_ to blow free from the book in the summer breeze, and, what do you know, it _did_ , even though the window was shut and the book was bound safely in the bookshelf.

He plans it well.

He’s been gathering the ingredients (marigold, lady's mantle, begonia, foxglove, geranium, dill, rose mallow, lavender, a dozen more) slowly, carefully, while Uncle’s occupied with clients late at night or early in the morning, and he’s got everything he needs on all three ingredient lists.

Because the day before Virgil knocked free the recipe, Virgil found out what really killed his parents.

The method doesn’t really matter to him; the police toxicology report could say all it wants, but Virgil knows better. Tracking back to Virgil’s too-many-greats-grandmother, the one who built the house, the first one with magic, and following down the lines, it’s clear every descendant of hers gets the magic.

They also get the curse.

It’s the curse that killed his mother, and his father. It’s the curse that killed his grandfather. It’s the curse that spells any spouse or significant romantic other that a Fae has. It kills the true love of any Fae. Virgil knows that any person who’s doomed to ensnare his heart, whoever Virgil is to fall for, he knows the curse will kill them, too.

So, the solution is to never fall in love.

He’s saved the ritual for a full moon, just like the recipe said, and he knows that Uncle will be occupied with clients all night long because full moons are a strong night for ritual magic. Because as much as the town may fear them, ignore them, eventually just about everyone in town would steal down the bluestone path in the cover of night to the Fae house for a magic solution to their problems. Love, or revenge, or healing, or whatever—people in Loch Ligerion know where to find it.

“Ready, Ser Magpie?” Virgil asks the cranky, battlescarred tom who’s among the forest cats who’ve been maintaining a cautious friendship with Virgil, mostly because of the discount salmon Virgil gets from the grocery store. He’s decided it’s probably best to have some kind of witness, even if it’s a cat.

He gusts a long cat sigh, and Virgil gathers the bowl full of full flowers, carefully placing Magpie and the recipe within it, and opens up the window.

He’s made this climb a couple times before, but never holding something, so he vows to himself to be extra careful about it. See, the spell has to be done in the light of the full moon, and he can’t do it in the front or back yards; Uncle conducts business in the kitchen, with a view clear to the backyard, so that’s out. And people come to the house usually through the front door, by the front yard, so _that’s_ out.

The only option, really, is the flattest bit of roof near Virgil’s bedroom. It’s perfect; he’s above most of the treetops of the forest enshrining Loch Ligerion, so he’s got the most moonbeam access up there, anyways.

If he could stop thinking about how easy it would be for him to slip and fall to his death, that would be _great_.

Virgil manages the climb by breathing slowly and deeply through his mouth, moving slowly, and only looking down when absolutely necessary. Eventually, though, he places the bowl up on the bit of roof, and hoists himself up not long after, kneeling and carefully removing Magpie from the bowl and placing him aside.

"Ah-mas Verr-ee-tas," Virgil reads aloud the scraggly cat, who sits a while away, flicking his tail disdainfully and ignoring Virgil. Virgil squints in the moonlight, and carefully reads the instructions again.

"One large mixing bowl," Virgil says, his soft, piping, childish voice carried away by the cool summer night breeze. "For each petal, name the ingredient you wish. Then turn the bowl counter-clockwise and toss the contents into the air on a full moon night. Then, your true love will come."

The logic, he figures, is to add things that are crazy impossible, clashing in just one person, and then Virgil would never be in love, because no person could have all of these traits. Right? Right.

He breathes and plucks a petal. “Doesn't always get sarcasm. _”_ Into the bowl.

Another petal. “Loves puns. _”_ Into the bowl.

Another, another, another, another. “Can ballroom dance. Trips over their own feet. Can make pancakes without a recipe. Burns toast if they try to cook.” Into the bowl, into the bowl, into the bowl, into the bowl.

More and more. “Knows all the elements on the periodic table. Doesn't like science. Good kisser. Good hugger. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. Green eyes. Really good singer. Sings in monotone. Sends letters without using paper or a pen. Can do a back handspring.”

On and on Virgil goes, listing traits, until at last he has all the petals in the bowl and the scattered stems are in danger of being pulled off the roof from the breeze. Virgil carefully stirs it counter clockwise and holds the bowl above his head.

"And so mote it be," he declares, as the wind takes his spell. Virgil watches as the petals float away, dotting the night sky, catching the silver sheen of the moon.

He lowers the bowl cautiously when the last of the petals drifts out of his line of sight and looks to Magpie.

“I think that went well.”

He yawns and stretches. “Will I get fish now?”

“All right, all right,” Virgil says, and places Magpie in the bowl, ready to climb back down to his room, to forget all about true love and curses.

* * *

When Virgil is ten, he nearly kills a man for the first time.

See, Virgil’s relationship with the people of the town hasn’t gotten any better since the Spider Ordeal with Gillian—at best, he’s ignored, at worst, he’s feared—so the closest he’s got to friends are Cora, Uncle, and the cats.

Uncle tends to figure that’s for the best; to him, for Faes, the world’s divided into Clients, Faes, and Enemies—Virgil’s a Fae, Cora’s a Fae by proxy, and most of the town falls evenly into Clients or Enemies. Virgil thinks that’s probably the way he should think too, the way most Faes seem to think, but Virgil still isn’t like most Faes. He still hangs around the cats, mostly.

It took the cats a while to get them to trust him, talk to him—they’ve got a whole different hierarchy than the cats in Russett Grove, but with a lot of leftover food from Cora’s and discount fish, he’s gotten to the point where the cats like him. Enough that the rest of the town knows that the cats are under Virgil’s protection. Enough that most children beg their parents for another pet, anything but a cat—a dog, a guinea pig, a goldfish, even—and families look the other way when their cat strolls up to Virgil, purring like an engine.

There’s the stray cats that live in the forest, too, almost all with the title “Ser” or “Lady,” almost all of them named after some other kind of animal. None of the cats in town have even told Virgil their second name, yet, but he thinks they like him well enough. They sit and hang out with him, at least, and lets him scratch behind their ears and under their chins. So they follow him around a lot, _especially_ when he’s going to the store or Auntie Cora’s.

Magpie, grouchy as he is, is getting on in years, so he comes to Virgil a lot for food because he’s too lazy to hunt, which means he ends up hanging around Virgil a lot. He likes being inside during the chillier weather so he could benefit from indoor heating and nap in the sunshine. So he’s Virgil’s dark, graying shadow, especially during colder days, so he could snatch scraps from Virgil’s inattentive fingers and burrow underneath Virgil’s hoodie, leeching his body heat. Goose, Magpie’s mate, the mother of his kits, tags along, some days, but most days she’s out hunting. She’s not nearly so lazy as Magpie.

It’s a Saturday on the day Virgil almost kills someone.

Uncle needs some kind of obscure weed for a really specific ritual he’s doing at the half moon, and he’s entrusted Virgil with going out into the woods and gathering them. He’d probably have better luck nearing the Loch, which is pretty deep in the forest, so Virgil’s geared up for a bit of a hike. Auntie Cora’s made tiny turkey-and-cheese sandwiches and packed him a little lunch because Virgil Is A Growing Boy Who Needs To Eat Something Other Than Sweets, _Dee_ , so. He’s ready for it.

Magpie’s waiting for him where the forest consumes their garden, flicking his tail.

“No Goose?” Virgil asks.

Magpie does the cat equivalent of a shrug. “She is near the People.”

_In town,_ Virgil thinks, anyone’s guess where. Goose likes to wander around a lot.

“You said you knew where some of this was, right?” Virgil asks, holding up the example herb that Uncle gave him for comparison. He gives Virgil a little cat nod.

“Lead the way, then.”

Virgil follows after Magpie as they go deeper and deeper into the forest, air smelling of dead lives and pine and the distant scent of cold on the wind. The forest is quiet, almost kind of dreamlike; the sunbeams filter through the leaves at an angle, leaving dappled, random spots of sunlight along the ground. The dead leaves and pine needles crunch under his feet, and Magpie gives the occasional half-hearted chase to a ground squirrel or bird; Virgil’s already promised him meat and cheese, anyways, so he’s mostly doing it for intimidation.

It takes about half an hour to get to the Loch, with their sidetracking, and Virgil looks out across the water.

Some people go to a lake to boat, or tube, or swim, or have fun; Loch Ligerion is for approximately _none of that._

Even the water seems different than other water—Virgil’s seen pictures of the bright blue of oceans, the navy of others, the bottle green-ish shade some lakes took. Loch Ligerion is such a dark shade of blue it looks black. The wind causes constant little waves along the water, and Virgil knows if he puts his hand in, if it goes down a foot, he could no longer see his hand. Even during the height of summer, Loch Ligerion could best be described as _chilly_ —on a fall day like this, Virgil figures someone could fall in and get hypothermia. Loch Ligerion’s about a square mile of water, Virgil thinks, with two main channels with dozens of coves branching off, giving the Loch an odd L-shape, if an L had branches like a tree. Virgil thinks he’s near one of the main channels, but he’s not entirely sure. Most of Loch Ligerion seems to treat its namesake a bit like the Faes; it tends to lay forgotten in the midst of the forest.

Which means there’s a lot of herbs for the picking, so that’s good for Virgil.

Virgil settles down on the rough, fleecy blanket he put in his backpack, removing the lunchbox.

“Is it time for meat?” Magpie asks, licking his whiskers, and Virgil grins.

“Yeah, it’s time for meat.”

He settles on the blanket, and Virgil carefully deconstructs one of the sandwiches, laying out the meat and cheese for Magpie to eat at his leisure before taking one for himself.

Cora’s packed him sandwiches, and grapes, and celery, and juice, and because Cora’s actually a softie, she’s packed a few experimental mini-pies she’s thinking about adding to the diner menu.

_Tell me what you think! Hugs, Auntie,_ reads a post-it in her copperplate cursive, and Virgil smiles a little, setting it aside.

He crunches on the celery and plays a game of catching grapes in his mouth, and Magpie tries grape juice only to attempt to hack it back up again.

“What?” Virgil asks, and Magpie tries, well, the cat equivalent of spitting it out, he guesses.

“ _Disgusting,”_ Magpie declares. “How do you tolerate such sweetness?”

Virgil laughs. “It’s kinda bitter, actually,” he says, and Magpie very clearly turns his nose up at the juice bottle, snapping up more meat in attempt to “rid his tongue of the taste.”

Once Virgil tries the pies (apple’s best) he dusts off his hands, and starts to pack up his lunch, placing everything back in the box, wrapping it in the blanket, and standing.

“Right,” Virgil says, looking to Magpie. “The herbs?”

Magpie nods, yawning, before trotting off, Virgil following.

Virgil’s pretty good with most plants; the house has their very extensive garden, plus an indoor green room for the plants that were too finicky for their climate. Whenever Uncle has clients over, Virgil’s taken to sitting on the landing of the steps, peeking into the kitchen, so he can see their shadows, read what they say and how it contrasts with what the people say. Virgil assumes Uncle mostly knows about the eavesdropping, because it’s safest to assume that Uncle knows everything. Besides, since Virgil’s taken to staying up and listening, he’s learned a lot about ritual magic, which Uncle seems to approve of; he even involves Virgil in the less high-stakes, more private potion creation and readings. Uncle’s started gesturing to Virgil, curling a gloved yellow finger, and that always means a magic lesson. And Virgil drops whatever he’s doing, because who cares about long division when Virgil can learn about divination?

Uncle teaches him lots of things. Virgil knows to always plant rosemary at your garden gate, plant roses and lavender for luck, throw salt over your left shoulder. Be careful what you wish for, and pity those who make their wishes recklessly. Here are the herbs he would mix for heartbreak, for mourning, for pregnancy; here are the spellbooks full of guidelines, though there are so many spells that had to be created using instinct, his own sense. Here are the teas for success, for fortune-telling, for calming dreams. Pay attention to dreams, because a vivid dream to a Fae is rarely just a vivid dream.

And through it all, Virgil sits on the landing and listens to Uncle’s hissed chants and charming words and takes mental notes about it. Because one day, it’s going to be Virgil the town comes to for help, for curses, for luck.

The idea of it only scares him some days.

“Here,” Magpie says, sitting down and commencing with washing his face, licking at his paw disinterestedly.

There’s a big patch of it, and Virgil settles, getting out the bag that Uncle gave him to put the herbs into, ready to pick his fill. Magpie complains about how boring it is, and Virgil shuts him up by giving him more meat from a leftover sandwich, before he’s satisfied with the selection.

“Okay,” Virgil says, sealing the bag and putting it away. “Ready to go back?”

Magpie stretches, leisurely, and starts walking without a word. Virgil rolls his eyes, good-natured, and follows gamely after him.

The walk back is almost peaceable, and Virgil gets lost in daydreaming. So lost, in fact, that he doesn’t even notice the metal contraption on the ground until it’s too late.

Magpie’s letting out the most bloodcurdling, desperate yowl Virgil’s ever heard, and Virgil drops to his knees, immediately trying to kick into action. _Trying._ He’s scared, he’s so scared, oh God, what if Magpie _dies_ and it’s Virgil’s fault—?

“Magpie,” Virgil chokes out, “Oh, _God,_ Magpie—”

The _thing_ has closed its sharp teeth around Magpie’s hind leg, and Virgil trembles as Magpie _screams_ —it’s the only way Virgil can think to describe it, and Virgil gasps wildly, there’s so much blood, there’s so much _blood_ —

“H-hang on,” Virgil gasps out, and looks at the trap. “Just hang on, Mags, okay, I’m getting you out of—”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence, barely lays his hand on the trap before it springs open, Virgil trembling as he dug out the fleece blanket, Magpie’s yowling dying down, his breathing labored. _Staunch blood, right? Apply pressure to blood?_ Virgil’s head is spinning, he doesn’t know what to _do_ and Magpie is _dying right now_ he cannot freak out right now—

“Stay awake, Mags, stay awake,” Virgil begs, tearing the blanket free as Magpie blinks at him, slowly, lazily.

“I am near Death,” Magpie sighs, and Virgil’s already shaking his head, trying to fix up some kind of sling so Virgil can get him out of here, get him to a vet, the blood, and Magpie’s old, he’s supposed to die of old age not because of some metal _thing_ in the forest when Virgil’s the one who got him out to the forest he isn’t going to die he _can’t die here_ —he needs help, he needs help, he needs a vet he needs help—

“You are _not,”_ Virgil says, and he feels the tears dripping down his face. “You aren’t, Magpie, don’t talk like that—”

He blinks at Virgil. “I am… I am a Good Boy, yes?”

“The best,” Virgil chokes out, managing to tie the blanket clumsily around Magpie’s leg, “and _shut up,_ because you aren’t dying here, okay? I’m not letting you die—”

Magpie lets out a wheezy, labored sigh. “Goose,” he murmurs, and Virgil’s hands are shaking as he presses against Magpie’s leg. _Help, help, help, we need help_ —

“Stay with me,” Virgil begs him. “Stay with me, Mags, stay—”

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

Virgil’s head whips around, and he sees—

Someone. Someone Virgil doesn’t know.

Virgil hasn’t met a stranger in five years.

“Who are you?” Virgil asks, pressing hard against Magpie’s flank. “Can you help me?”

The man—he’s a behemoth, towering over Virgil from where he’s crouched protectively over Magpie—sighs, swings something over his shoulder.

A rifle.

“You know how much work it is to get those traps set back up?” The man says, as if he’s trying to lecture Virgil for some great cardinal sin he’s committed. “God, stupid fuckin’ cat.”

And Virgil—

Virgil’s sight goes _white._

“You,” Virgil says, and his voice sounds scratchy and horrible, even to him, heart racing loud in his ears, blood-covered hands shaking. “You did this.”

He manages to pick up Magpie, who lets out a weak noise of protest, and holds him tight and close to his chest.

“It’s a _trap,”_ the man says, exasperated, and that’s when Virgil sees the eyes.

Dozens of them. Blue, green, amber, yellow—all familiar, all ones that have watched him throughout the years, ones he’s blinked at slow to pass on the same respect and admiration that they mean when they blink at him slow.

“ _Get him,”_ Virgil snarls, and that’s when the veritable army of tabbies, calicos, toms and queens, kittens and elderly cats, fling themselves from the trees, race out from the bushes, all teeth and claws with yowling and hissing, like a biblical _plague_ of them, and Virgil sees the first few break the skin, sees the blood well up on the man, the way he collapses.

And Virgil turns to run.

Time goes blurry and distant and vague in a way it never does for him; Fae memory works in a different way than it did for other people, their memories never lost, just quietly tucked away, like books on a shelf. But something blurs, and the next thing Virgil knows, he’s barging into the vet’s office, clinging tight to Magpie.

“Please,” Virgil begs, panting—did he run all the way here?— “please, help him, he’s hurt, there was some kind of trap—"

Already, the vet’s taking Magpie away, scooping him free of Virgil’s arms, leaving Virgil to slump into a heap the middle of the vet floor, trembling so badly he thinks he won’t be able to stand until they bring Magpie out again, good as new, _he needs to be okay_ —

Virgil’s breath hitches, and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, which feel hot, the lump in his throat. He is _not_ about to cry about this, he’s not, he needs to stay calm, he needs to—

“ _Virgil.”_

He gasps a little when he looks up—it’s Uncle, and Virgil’s not sure if he’s ever been happier to see him, but Uncle’s grabbing him by the shoulders, looking him over, and Virgil looks down at himself for the first time.

“S’Mags’,” Virgil mumbles, picking at the drying blood caked on his shirt, and there’s a reedy, distressed whine.

It’s Goose. Virgil extends his arms, and Goose crawls into his arms.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Virgil tells her numbly, trying to force himself to believe it. “He’s gonna be fine. We got him here in time, he’ll be okay.”

Goose pushes her nose behind his ear, and Virgil shivers a little, trying to fight the urge to laugh. It usually tickles, but he doesn’t feel a lot like laughing right now.

“She was not yowling up a storm,” Uncle says, and Virgil is eventually manhandled into sitting in an actual chair. “What happened?”

Virgil takes a breath and takes off his backpack, digging out the bag of herbs.

“We were walking back,” he says, resuming his tight grip on Goose—who’s _crying,_ he’s _never_ seen any of the cats cry. “There was a. A trap, or something. Magpie stepped on it. There was a…” Virgil shakes his head.

“Who?” Uncle asks, looking lethal.

“Didn’t know him,” Virgil whispers, curling tighter around Goose, trying to pet her, do something to calm her down. “The cats were. I think I—” Virgil shakes his head. “I don’t—remember?”

Uncle sighs, and removes his cape, draping it around Virgil’s shoulders, and barks “You!” at the person at the front desk, who jumps.

“Call Cora,” he says, tightly.

“Cora, Auntie Cora’s diner, Cora?” The receptionist squeaks, and Uncle’s glare increases in intensity. She puts her head down and quickly dials the number.

Uncle pauses, before he clumsily puts an arm over Virgil’s shoulders—Virgil thinks it’s probably the first bit of physical affection Uncle’s offered since his parents died, so he probably seems really upset. Or something. Everything’s kind of going far away.

Virgil’s grip tightens on Goose, and he sniffs a little. Uncle smells like the garden, like grass and dirt, and a bit like tea, and something kind of indescribable that makes him think of that day out at the sunning rock in Russett Grove.

Eventually, when Virgil’s murmuring all the comforting things he can think of to Goose, Cora bursts in, all in a flurry—she hasn’t even taken off the apron she wears around the diner.

“Oh, _Virgil,”_ she says, and tugs him into a hug, which Virgil returns gratefully—he squeezes her tight with the arm that isn’t holding Goose, and she strokes a hand down his hair before she crouches in front of him.

“Are you all right?” She asks, squeezing his free hand, and Virgil nods, and clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

She sighs at him, the sigh saying a very clear _no you’re not_ , before she folds him into a hug again.

That’s how time passes—Cora saying comforting things to Virgil and brushing a hand over his hair, Uncle looming and terrifying the poor receptionist, Virgil mostly preoccupied with comforting Goose and worrying over Magpie.

It feels like it’s forever until the vet steps outside, fiddling nervously with her clipboard when she sees Uncle before turning to Virgil.

“We’ll keep him overnight for observation,” she says. “But it looks like he’ll make a full recovery.”

Virgil feels like a puppet with its strings cut, and he slumps, putting his head in his hands and breathing even.

_He’ll make a full recovery,_ he repeats to himself forcefully. _He’ll make a full recovery._

“He’ll be okay,” he croaks to Goose, who lets out a throaty, warbling noise—of relief, Virgil’s pretty sure—and collapses herself, curling into a tiny ball.

Cora’s hand rubs up and down his back.

“There we are, see,” she murmurs, and then, “Dee, would you grab some fresh clothes for him? No blood in my diner.”

Uncle barks a singular laugh and waves a hand—it comes to his side gripping a bundle of clothes, which he offers to Virgil, which Virgil takes mutely and clears his throat.

“Where’s your bathroom?” He asks the vet, who gestures mutely to the left.

Virgil enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind him before he presses his back against it, sliding to the ground, and gulping in air.

_He’ll make a full recovery. He’ll make a full recovery._

So why haven’t Virgil’s hands stopped shaking yet?

He gives himself a minute, before he straightens up and changes out of his blood-stained clothes. He scrubs the blood off of his hands and splashes cold water on his face, too, and when he walks out, he sees everyone clustered by the door.

Everyone. The receptionist, the vet, even Cora and Uncle. Virgil frowns, and barges his way through, Goose following shortly after him, twining between his ankles before he bends to pick her up, blinking out at the sight ahead of him.

Someone called an ambulance. The nearest hospital is a while away, and someone’s loading a stretcher with a familiar, bloodied man on it, who goes even more white when he sees Virgil cradling Goose.

“It’s him,” he wheezes, and Virgil feels his spine stiffen as the rest of the town looks to him, as the man points and shrieks. “It was him! IT WAS HIM!”

The ambulance people don’t pay much attention—they load the man into the ambulance, and shut the door, cutting off the man’s yells.

What doesn’t cut off, though, is the way the other townspeople had congregated outside are looking at him now.

The way they look at Uncle.

Like he’s something to be feared.

* * *

When Virgil is twelve, he makes his first friend.

He’s taken to doing his homework outside of the house, because he knows if he does it in the house he’ll get distracted by whatever magic thing Uncle wants him to learn that day, so the obvious choice is doing it at the diner, with Cora, or at the library, with Great-Aunt Margot.

She’s the librarian of their (frankly pitiful) library, and she’s always been kind of clingy—pinching his cheeks a lot when he was little, loudly proclaiming how much he’s grown as if it hasn’t just been a week since he last saw her, that kind of thing. But she’s managed to net a few _very_ old desktop computers for the library at a discount price, plus the library is quiet, and no one his age is there. So it’s perfect for homework, and also just generally keeping out of the way.

“Hi, Great-Aunt Margot,” Virgil says dutifully as he enters, passing by her desk, and frowns when he sees his usual spot taken. Actually, the library’s a bit more crowded than usual that day—mostly high-schoolers, so Virgil guesses it’s probably the upcoming spring midterms that have got them all worried. Actually, one of the only spots of calm is near the desktops, so to the desktops Virgil goes.

Homework’s not all that bad that day, but he does boot up the computer once to look up something about a science term he isn’t sure about, and, well, if he’s done with homework…

Virgil steals a glance around the library, and, as usual, everyone’s ignoring him. That usually works in his favor.

Virgil pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth. What now? Uncle isn’t expecting for over an hour, probably, and the internet’s his oyster.

Virgil mostly ends up googling _things to do on the internet,_ and a site pops up. _Omegle._ Huh. Okay. Sounds weird.

_Talk to strangers!_ It quips, and Virgil… well, that intrigues him a bit. The last stranger he’s met was the hunter who nearly killed Magpie (who is holed up in the house with Goose, caring for what’s likely to be their last litter, they both proclaim to be too old for this) and, well… he hadn’t known anything about who Virgil was. What Virgil could _do._

Nothing.

Virgil pauses, before he clicks it, peeking furtively over the top of the desktop to see Margot, reading some kind of book with a bare-chested man on the cover of it.

_What do you want to talk about?_ The website asks, and Virgil blinks, stumped. What does he want to talk about?

His eyes slide over to the nearest shelf; the one housing VHS’s for rent. He smiles a little.

_D-I-S-N-E-Y,_ he types in carefully, and hits _go._

_You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!_

Virgil swallows, and taps out a _hi_ which he sends, and curses himself. Should he have added an exclamation point? Is that proper internet etiquette? Is this—

**Stranger:** heyy

Virgil blinks. Okay. That’s… quicker than expected. He licks his lips nervously.

**You:** so what’s your favorite movie?

**Stranger:** HOW DARE YOU MAKE YOU CHOOSE AMONGST MY DARLING BABIES

**Stranger:** XD

Virgil tilts his head, and smiles a little, uncertain. That’s a good emoji, right? That’s a smiling one?

**You:** yeah haha I guess it is pretty hard to choose

**You:** they’re pretty super

**Stranger:** CALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS

Virgil knows that one!

**Stranger:** julie andrews is a BEAUTIFUL GODDESS

**You:** she’s super awesome!!

_Is that a thing people say???_ Virgil’s so used to talking to people who are over twenty years older than him and cats, he has no idea if he sounds like a person or not—

**Stranger:** HECK YEAH SHE IS!

Virgil sighs in relief.

**Stranger:** but I just watched cinderella and omg, like???? believe and all your dreams will come true!! CORE disney!!!!

Virgil snorts.

**You** : or just wait around your entire life subjecting yourself to the cruelty of your ungrateful ignorant family members until a magical fairy comes along, right?

**You:** don’t take action yourself!

**Stranger:** ( ﾟoﾟ)

**Stranger:** she had mice too!!!!

**You:** plus men can’t memorize the face of a woman they’ve been dancing around with for HOURS, ergo, men are idiots???

Virgil’s not entirely sure that one’s fully wrong. Men kind of are idiots. The only capable person in his life is Cora, and, well.

**Stranger:** ヽ(｀Д´)ﾉ

**Stranger:** HE WAS A VERY BUSY PRINCE!!!!

Virgil grins, and prods on with the movie that prodded him to put in Disney in the first place: _Snow White?_

They bicker back and forth about movies ( _what’s with all the prince hate?!?!,_ the stranger demands) and Virgil feels his _cheeks_ hurting. He actually laughs out loud when the stranger types _WHAT THE HECKITY HECK, FIVE ABS AND ONE PECK?!_ This stranger’s mostly bickering because they have differing opinions about Disney, not because of who Virgil is—Virgil counts it a victory when they’re talking about _Little Mermaid_ and the stranger grumbles about writing or sign language, how the princes could use some help every now and then, and Virgil grins.

**You:** well, yeah. I mean I’m not disagreeing with you—I just think that there’s a lot of different messages, you know?

**Stranger:** ….you… aren’t?

**You:** no. I mean there’s different interpretations, right? I don’t think either of us are wrong.

**Stranger:** I… yeah. I guess you’re right.

“Virgil,” someone says, and Virgil jumps, glancing over at Great-Aunt Margot’s desk. “Isn’t your Uncle expecting you?”

Virgil checks the time, and blinks. They’ve been talking for _way_ longer than expected.

**You:** it’s time for dinner for me, I’ve gotta go. It was cool talking to you.

He hits _disconnect,_ logs out, and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna go to Cora’s,” he says to Margot, and rushes out of the library, grinning to himself still.

“Hello there, Mr. Cheery,” Cora says with a grin when Virgil hops up to the soda counter. “What’s got you so smiley?”

Virgil smiles to himself, and shrugs. “Good day, s’all.”

The week that follows is, to put it simply, _terrible._

The kittens (Sparrow, Crane, Crow, Hawk, Cardinal, Bluejay, and Kingfisher) are having trouble feeding, so Virgil’s taking care of them, plus there’s a pop quiz in math he’s totally unprepared for, and he gets caught unprepared in the rain _three times_ on the walk to and from school. He grumpily walks into the library, grunting a greeting to Margot, before he settles at the desktop of his choice again (back in a corner, so no one can see his screen and he can see everyone.)

He digs out his vocab workbook, before he scowls and sets it aside.

A day without homework won’t kill him. And what are the teachers going to do? _Call his Uncle?_ Right.

He boots up the desktop and clicks over to Omegle.

The people there are similarly _terrible._ He’s tried different interests, but none of them seem interested in having an actual conversation, or doing anything other than—well, things that he shouldn’t do in a public library.

At last, he types in _Disney_ again—and waits.

**You:** what’s your fave movie?

**Stranger:** how dare you make me choose?????

Virgil starts to smile.

**You:** and julie andrews is a beautiful goddess, right???

**You:** what the heckity heck, five abs and one peck, am I right?????

**Stranger:** !!!!!

**Stranger** : and men are idiots!!!!

**You:** MEN ARE IDIOTS!!!

Virgil’s stifling his laughter against his hand.

**Stranger:** I wanted to find you again!! where have you been the past week????

Virgil lists off his various complaints—the nonstop rain, his worry over the kittens, grumbling about school—and the stranger responds in kind, talking about theater and a choir thing, and Virgil gathers up his courage.

**You:** can I get some kind of name??? it feels weird calling you “stranger” in my head, haha

As soon as he hits send, he hides his face in his hands, trying not to groan. He peeks up when it dings.

**Stranger:** well, I mean, we’re not supposed to use our real names online, right? stranger danger and all that. um. call me….

**Stranger:** charming!

Virgil groans, and writes, only a little teasing, _what, like the prince?_

**Stranger:** or charm! that works too!

Virgil pauses, and glances around, seeking some kind of inspiration. No actual name, no actual name…

**You:** okay. charm. I can handle that. uh, call me…

His eyes land on his vocab workbook, and he flips it open to a random page, trying to find a good word, when his eyes land on _anxious._ Anxious, no. But…

**You:** anx works, I guess.

**Stranger:** anx!!! that’s cool, I wish I thought of that first

**You:** so, CHARM, what movies are we debating today???

**Stranger:** okay I KNOOOW what you said last time about beauty and the beast bUT

**You:** stockholm! syndrome!

**Stranger:** IT’S ABOUT A LOVE THAT TRANSCENDS OUTWARD APPEARANCE OKAY

**You:** HE’S A HAIRY BUFFALO DEMON BEAST, CHARM

Between the debating, Virgil clicks around, and as it gets closer to dinnertime, Virgil swallows and taps out a last message.

**You:** hey, so, talking to you is great, and I want to keep doing it, only if you do tho. here’s an email address. I gotta run to dinner. so, um, talk to you soon? maybe?

Virgil disconnects and logs out of everything before Charm can answer.

The next day after school, Virgil mumbles a hi to Margot before making a beeline to the computer, and immediately logging into his shiny new email address.

Where there’s a new email in his inbox from someone calling themselves _Charm._

Virgil grins, and opens it.

_Hey!_

_It’s weird typing this out like a letter instead of chat, lol. I feel like we’re penpals or something. So, hi, I’m (apparently) Charm, I’m a 12 year old boy_ —

Virgil cuts off reading then, heart pounding. He could be lying. But how would he have known that precise age?

_I’m a 12 year old boy, and I’m really hoping you’re not an internet predator. I like acting and singing and dancing. I’m getting better at dancing, I really am, people say I’ll be a bit more sure on my feet once I stop growing. I live in_ — _wait, probably not good info to give out. Uhhhh, my favorite book is Harry Potter_ —

The letter goes on—apparently Charm is also in sixth grade, thinks science _sucks,_ and wants to be an actor when he grows up, _preferably on Broadway, but I’m flexible!_ Virgil swallows, dry, and flexes his hands.

Right. How does he talk about any of his interests without sounding like a crazy person?

_hi,_

_thanks for writing me back, I wasn’t sure if you were gonna. so my name is anx (apparently) and funnily enough, I’m also a 12 year old boy. I am also really hoping you’re not an internet predator. I like_ —

Virgil pauses, and starts chewing at his thumbnail. What does he like that _doesn’t_ sound like he’s in a cult?

— _cats,_ Virgil decides, _I told you about magpie and goose. the kittens are doing way better now, so that’s really good to know. I garden a lot, but that’s mostly because_ —

My Uncle is a warlock/witch/magician who needs fresh plants for rituals and potions? Right.

— _because the family business needs it, but I think it’s kinda nice. I live with my Uncle, and I am also not telling you where I live._

Virgil writes more too. He writes about how his Great-Aunt on his Mom’s side owns a diner and Virgil helps out there sometimes and eats there most times, and how _another_ Great-Aunt on his Mom’s side is the librarian, where Virgil writes to Charm, and how yet _another_ Great-Aunt on his Mom’s side is one of the teachers at school. He writes about how he’s also in the sixth grade, and how he thinks science is pretty decent, really, but math can go _drown in a lake,_ and that he can’t really carry a tune but he likes listening to music a lot. Virgil looks over it—is he being funny enough, is he being clever enough?—before he hits send.

Then he logs out and digs out his math homework with a grimace.

He learns about Charm in bits and pieces.

He’s in the same time zone as Virgil. He also doesn’t care about football, or sports in general, really. He runs track for school, and he’s decent enough at it. He’s really excited about the theater camp he’s going to this summer, and he’s floating in the clouds the day he hears he’s made the lead. He’s really passionate about the stuff he makes—Virgil almost wants to keep notes about all the stories he’s got going, because they’re _so_ _cool_ and sometimes he wants to reread when he doesn’t have access to the internet. He can sing too—he’s kind of bashful about it, so Virgil thinks he must be pretty good, because Charm only gets bashful about things like that. He’s recommended a lot of music to Virgil; some of it’s all right, most of it is pretty bouncy and very _Broadway,_ and there’s a few he likes that he probably wouldn’t have learned about if not for Charm.

Virgil really really likes Charm.

He’s—to put it simply— _cool._

He’s funny, and dramatic, and hard-working, and _interesting_. He acts like Virgil is interesting in kind, and he teases Virgil mostly as a form of being _funny_ and less as, like, hating him for his family history and what he can do and also nearly killing a dude that one time.

When the summer stretches endlessly before him, it’s easy to split his time between the air-conditioned library where he can spend his time talking and joking with Charm, and his house, where he gets to take a more serious role in the whole family business deal. He even gets to help make some charms, does a few minor rituals, gets to actually sit in the room while Uncle deals with clients. He spends mornings and evenings helping Cora set up and clean up, before the breakfast rush and after the dinner rush, respectively.

Virgil sends letters back too; he’s vague about the specifics of his life, mostly refers to stuff he does for and with Uncle as preparing him for the Family Business, talks about Cora and the cats.

It’s around July when Charm meekly adds in a letter _just curious_ — _why don’t you talk about your real life friends? you don’t have to if you don’t want._

Virgil swallows, flexes his fingers. Starts to write. He talks about the stuff he’s did that week and responding to Charm’s stories first, before he pauses, chewing his lip, and then just going for it.

_you asked about my real life friends. to be honest_ —

Virgil swallows. Cracks his knuckles.

_to be honest, I… well I mean I have auntie c and my uncle but they’re family so they don’t count. my friends are mostly the cats, haha, most of the other kids in town_ —

Virgil swallows, rubs his eyes.

_most of the other kids in town don’t like me much. it’s a pretty long story but basically I’m kinda like. stanley yelnats? from holes? except instead of just affecting me and uncle, it affects the whole town too. but also kinda zero too. it’s a really really long story, but basically most of the town_ —

Virgil swallows again. There’s something in his throat.

— _basically most of the town hates me. hates us, I should say, my dad’s side of the family. I think the main reason we aren’t, like, chased out is bc they need the family business, otherwise we’d be like. super gone. plus I guess they’re kinda scared of us, that too. but, uh, I guess to answer your question_ — _I don’t talk about real life friends because I don’t have any._

_anyways, I’ll talk to you later, or whatever. tell me more about the backstage drama._

_-anx_

Virgil logs out and beats a hasty retreat before he has time to second-guess what he’s sent.

He’s almost afraid to log on the next day and has to take a walk through the stacks before he can actually calm himself enough to sit down in front of his desktop and log in, trying not to cringe when he sees two unread email notifications. He opens the older one first.

_Anx,_ Charm writes, and Virgil winces, because Charm _rarely_ actually capitalizes words that should actually be capitalized. He calms the urge to take another walk and forces himself to read it all.

_the kids in your town are THE WORST. SERIOUSLY!!!!!! **THE WORST!!!!!!!** actually your WHOLE TOWN IS THE WORST, except for auntie c who sounds like a delight and your uncle is still kinda on probation sorry dude BUT YOUR TOWN IS THE  
**W O R S T!!!!** I mean who even CARES that your great-great-whatever did something to like, cause a curse, I don’t entirely get that part, but WHO CARES!! that has NOTHING to do with you!_

Well. It kinda did. It was the whole reason Virgil could do magic, but Charm didn’t know that.

_and even if it did!!! people shouldn’t judge you because your great-great-whatever did something (???) you weren’t even BORN, it wasn’t your fault! besides, the people in your town are SO dumb to just ignore you based on some stupid town superstition, are you kidding me???? they’re the ones missing out!_

Virgil blinks. Blinks again.

_because you’re, like. you’re ANX, you know??? you’re funny in a really sarcastic way, and you care a lot about the cats and your aunt and uncle, and you’re weird but like a GOOD weird, you know? like you’re really smart about plants and music and you saved my whole entire science grade. you’re just… it’s like one of the best parts of my day when I see that I have a notification from you, you know? like, I light up. because I know you’re gonna have some story about people being ridiculous in the diner, or someone running scared from your uncle, or the cats are doing something weird, and you’re gonna tell it in such a YOU way. like, the people of your town are MORONS to let your family history or whatever get in the way of getting to know YOU, one of the most interesting people ever._

Virgil’s curled up in the chair so he’s pressing his mouth into his knee, blinking hard so he can keep reading without his vision blurring up.

_now that I know that the people in your town are that much dumber than I thought they were, it just makes me think you’re even braver._

Wait. What?

_like, I’d NEVER be able to handle moving to a new, weird town when I was that little, and I definitely couldn’t handle it if all the people in town were mean to me. you’re so protective over the cats, and auntie c, and your uncle if he ever needed it. like, going through life like that and still being yourself is one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard._

_anyways. I’ll send you another email with the normal stuff, I just wanted to be sure you knew about how amazing, brave, and caring you are._

_-charm_

_ps. I really wasn’t kidding about all of your town being stupid, but ofc the stupidest is that gaston dude._

Okay, so Virgil _might_ have told a censored version of the Spider Ordeal, and given Jimmy the codename of Gaston, but honestly, he _deserves_ it lately, strutting around like being the forward on their (tiny) basketball team meant he was a gift from God.

Virgil pauses, and scrolls back to the top to read it again, and then again, and then he steals a furtive glance around. Great-Aunt Margot’s preoccupied with helping someone figure out the Dewey Decimal System, so Virgil covertly hits _print_ and snatches the papers, folding them up carefully and sticking them into his hoodie pocket.

Just in case he wants to read it again.

He clicks over to the other email and responds in kind—other than a quick _ps-thanks_ , he doesn’t act like anything’s different. He doesn’t at all act like these are the first compliments about his personality he’s heard from anyone other than Cora in seven years.

Things continue.

The weather turns from slightly-warmer back into the familiar realm of fall, and Virgil again has to work on his homework rather than spend all of his time in the library chatting to Charm. He’s printed off more snippets, little things—like the first time Charm says _my best friend,_ or when Charm says that his show went really well and sounds like he’s on the top of the world, stuff like that—which he keeps in an envelope, which he in turn keeps in an old photo album, the same one that has his parents’ wedding pictures. It only shakes him a little when he looks in the album and then in a mirror; he looks like a younger version of his Dad, which means in turn he looks like a younger version of Uncle, admittedly without scales.

Virgil keeps getting looped into the family business, too. He even deals out a few minor spells and readings for some kids in his grade, in exchange for pocket money; Uncle seems to approve. Cora mostly gets after him about saving money versus spending it, which isn’t really a concern; it seems Virgil’s inherited a certain sense of frugality on either side of the family. He feels a bit like a magpie (not Magpie, who’s been busy teaching his kits to hunt lately, so Virgil’s mostly been kicking it with Goose) hoarding the bills and coins to himself. Virgil kind of wishes he could buy a present and send it to Charm, but he knows that’s not likely—he doesn’t even know what _state_ Charm lives in, so it’s a no on post. Besides, the nearest post office is a couple towns over, so he’s out of luck there.

Virgil is also, apparently, _dressing appropriately, though not quite at the level one should expect from a Fae,_ which mostly means that Virgil wears black all the time. He’s got no idea how the cat fur doesn’t stick to him like crazy, but it’s probably magic. What Uncle means by _level,_ Virgil thinks Uncle would probably prefer if he wore suits or something, or even some semblance of the dress-shirt-and-cape thing Uncle’s had going on for as long as Virgil could remember. But Virgil’s just fine in his hoodies and jeans, thanks, and he’ll stick to that for as long as he can.

Seventh grade is about the same as sixth, with the same amount of people avoiding him, but a different teacher, so that’s something. However, it _is_ his Great-Aunt Vivian, so nothing really new there. At least this means that the teacher isn’t going to join in on fearmongering.

He grumbles about most of this to Charm, who grumbles in kind. New teacher, same kids, more difficult material. It’s enough to make Virgil idly wonder if he should go the Gillian route and just… ignore it. However, Charm doesn’t have that same opportunity, so Virgil figures he should suffer through it too, for like, solidarity, or whatever.

Charm’s still one of the best parts of his day, which he attempts to tell him in kind, in a much clumsier way than Charm did once. But Charm seems to appreciate it, so Virgil figures it’s a job well done.

Things like that happen too—somewhere along the line, Virgil and Charm started talking to each other about things that Virgil’s never been able to tell anyone else. Like, Virgil tells him about all his mixed, complex feelings about his Uncle—what his Dad said to him before he died, the way Uncle actually seems to be protective of Virgil whenever he sees any funny business, but in comparison to the brusque way Virgil gets brushed off, the way Uncle only seems to care about training Virgil for the family business and nothing else—about how lonely Virgil feels sometimes, about how he wants to run away, some days.

Charm does too, Virgil thinks. About how much he second-guesses every performance, every bit of writing, every time he walks out into the world to present himself.

It’s November when Charm (and Google) helpfully knock Virgil’s world off its axis before immediately righting it again, righting it in a way that helps him see that he’d previously been a little off-kilter the whole time before.

It’s a long, winding email that Virgil kind of has trouble following the thread of before Charm starts in on a new paragraph.

_so there’s this thing that I’ve been kind of struggling to put into words for a while, so I figured I’d try and say it to you, okay? I’ve never actually like. said it. to someone. I mean people have guessed but like, I’ve never really confirmed or denied??? so congrats, I guess? I think it’s easier doing it like this because I just have to like. say my piece. I don’t have to see your face. no offense, I bet your face is lovely, but_ — _ugh. okay. I’m getting off track._

_so, haha_ —

It is quite possibly, the fakest _haha_ he has ever read.

— _um, speaking of finding your face lovely. not just, like, your face in particular, but just generally, like, people’s… faces??? I mean! girls are…_

Virgil braces himself. Charm’s never really been the type to talk about, like, _girls,_ in the way the boys in his grade are starting to do; Virgil’s been kind of glad for that.

— _girls are… like, nice, you know? like, you know I have girl friends. friends who are girls, I mean. like, I think they are… pretty, and stuff. like their faces are just generally pleasant, and all bodies are beautiful, of course, but I’ve kind of started to notice that I don’t really… look, at them, I guess? Like we’ve complained about boys in our grade being gross about girls before_ —

It’s true. Jimmy has been saying some Gross Stuff about Abigail Brott and Sophia Maguire in the locker room, and Even Grosser Stuff about Mia Baldini. Virgil mostly just tries to change as fast as he possibly can and beat it, but he can’t exactly glue his ears shut, so—

— _but I don’t, like. think? like that? like when I think of a girl my first instinct is like. friendly. not… romantic._

_look. this is a really roundabout way to go about this, but. when I think about romance, and my future spouse, I don’t think about women. Because…I’m gay._

_Gay,_ Virgil reads, again and again. Before he clicks over to a new tab and types _gay?_ in the searchbar.

There’s a couple articles, and then the definition. _Gay, adjective: 1. (Of a person, especially a man) homosexual._

_Oh._

_Ohhhhh._ Okay. So Charm… likes boys. Okay.

Most of Virgil’s experience is, surrounding gay people, are older people in the town grumbling about _the homosexuals,_ but Virgil doesn’t listen to that very much.

Virgil leans back in his chair, reads the last couple sentences from Charm, and clicks _reply,_ before biting his lip.

Because Virgil… Virgil’s first instinct towards girls isn’t romantic, either.

He always kind of figured it’s because he’s terrified of the curse (and he is, he’s very very terrified) but what if… that’s not entirely why?

And a memory kind of hits Virgil with what feels like the force of a falling meteor. It’s a little one, from when _he_ was little. He can’t even remember what he looks like, now, but Virgil remembers—

“ _I’m gonna marry him,” Virgil decides, hopping home because he’s tied his shoelaces together, just to show that he could._

_“Hm?” Mom asks, looking down from his left side, his Dad echoing her a moment later from his right._

_“I’m gonna marry Benjy,” Virgil repeats. “He’s got all kinds of Legos **plus** he has all the Disney movies and he knows everything about the Power Rangers.”_

_His mother laughs a little, swings his arm, and his Dad says teasingly, “Well, should we roll out the betrothment deal to Benjy’s family, Vi?”_

_“Please,” Mom sniffs, “that’s archaic. Virgil can propose himself, we’ll get him a Ring Pop or something.”_

_“His favorite color’s blue,” Virgil adds helpfully,_ and the memory fades with his parents’ laughter. Virgil closes his eyes, allows the sense of vertigo to sweep over him, allows himself five seconds of missing his parents.

Then he opens his eyes, swallows, and refocuses on the screen.

What does someone say, in this situation? _Hey, thanks for telling me you’re gay, it helped me remember something I forgot and it turns out surprise, I’m also gay?_

Virgil pauses, blinks. _Gay,_ he repeats to himself, mentally. _I’m gay._

Huh. He’s gonna have to have some time to get used to that, probably. But it doesn’t feel wrong, or anything. It feels… kind of easy, really. Like sliding your foot into a new pair of shoes after wearing ones that were a half-size too small for months and months.

He might freak out about it later, but right now, he thinks he’s okay.

_Charm,_ Virgil writes, and bites at his thumbnail. Finally he decides to go the direct route.

_Me too._

_-Anx_

He hits send.

He never gets to read what Charm says back.

Virgil’s spent most of the night before breaking out the old tapestries, trying to trace and see if any member of the family’s had the curse enact on them _before_ producing an heir, because if Virgil doesn’t produce an heir, then maybe—

Virgil squashes the hope in his chest, resigns himself to that being his new project, because there’s a lot of incomplete tapestries dangling all over the house, in no particular order, and some of them might be fake, so he’s got no idea, really.

Anyways, he doesn’t go to bed like, at all, so he’s kind of stumbling sleepily to the library, only for Great-Aunt Margot to stand in his way when he tries to go over to the desktops.

Virgil frowns. “Hi, Great-Aunt Margot,” he says, and tries to side-step her, only for her to step into his path, and—

She’s twisting a handkerchief in her hands, and some internal warning bells inside of Virgil go wild. Virgil frowns, and affects his best impersonation of a slightly more intimidating Uncle-look. Judging by the way her eyes widen a little, it kind of works.

“Virgil,” she begins, and her voice is a squeak, before she clears her throat. Virgil is very aware that the library is empty; it’s just the two of them. Virgil distantly wonders if this is by design.

“I—” she begins. “It’s… come to my attention, that you’re not using the internet safely or responsibly.”

_What._

“The internet at the library is a—a privilege,” and she’s really twisting that handkerchief now, “And even if I have—personal—connections to a-a patron, it is still my responsibility as librarian to step in. So,” she says, and draws herself up to her full height, which is, now Virgil’s noticed, a bit shorter than Virgil, actually, “So you can no longer use the internet in such a way. I’ve had safeguards put in to ensure that you won’t be able to do it again.”

What she’s saying just. Isn’t computing, for Virgil. It doesn’t make sense at all. All he’s doing is sending emails, why is that unsafe and unresponsible? Virgil moves forwards again, and at last she steps aside, as Virgil sits down at his usual desktop, and logs in.

Then he tries to log into his email.

And again.

And again.

“What did you do.”

Virgil’s voice has gone very flat. He is distantly aware that his hands are curling into fists.

“I-I’ve had safeguards—” she stammers.

“ _So remove them._ ”

“I—I can’t do that,” she says. She doesn’t sound sorry. She _should_ be sorry. “The password’s been swapped, and—”

Virgil makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“—and you won’t be able to access it again,” she says, and bobs her head in a little self-satisfied nod. “So there.”

Weirdly? It’s that little gesture, those two words, that make Virgil lose it.

“So there,” Virgil says, hoarse, and repeats, louder, “ _So there?!”_

She stumbles back as soon as Virgil shoves back from the desk, rising to _his_ full height, which is growing and growing more by the day.

“I-now,” she says, trying to be firm, but Virgil can _see_ that she’s cowering away from him, that she’s _scared_ of him, “Virge—”

“Don’t _call me that,”_ Virgil spits out. “ _You_ don’t get to call me that.”

“Virgil,” she corrects herself hastily. “I—this may seem bad now—but one day, you’ll thank me for this—”

“ _Thank_ you for this,” Virgil seethes, nails digging into his palms. “ _Thank you?!_ Are you _kidding me?”_

Virgil is distantly aware that this is, quite possibly, the first time an adult has stepped in and forbidden him from something he’s wanted, something that makes him _happy,_ in years, possibly in his whole life. It would be one thing if it was just Virgil messing around in the internet. But Margot was barring him from his _friend_ —his _only_ friend, the only person who actually _likes_ him for who he is—she was _cutting him off from that._ To Virgil, that’s _unforgivable._

“I _hate_ you,” Virgil explodes, and something behind him _shatters,_ and Margot screams, hands flying up to protect her face, and Virgil dashes for the door.

He can never particularly bring himself to feeling sorry about it.

* * *

When Virgil is seventeen, he decides he’s going to college.

It really mostly takes Virgil glancing back at his grades (As and Bs—partially because a lot of the time he had nothing to do but homework, and partially because his teachers were terrified of giving him a poor grade, after seeing what happened in the library) and then getting a postcard from some colleges because of his scores on state testing stuff, including scholarship information.

It takes until a late night in Auntie Cora’s, Virgil up to his elbows in hot soapy water as Cora checks the till.

“So,” Virgil says, focusing on a particularly stubborn sauce stain, “I’m thinking about going to college.”

He risks a glance over to her. She’s stopped counting money in the till and turns to look at him.

“Well,” she says, and fans herself a little with her hand, the way she always does when she’s flustered. “Well, hon, that’s—certainly somethin’. I think you’d be the first in the family.”

It doesn’t surprise him. Mom’s side is pretty soundly located in Loch Ligerion, and Dad’s is, well, going the way of Uncle, making a living off magic.

“Yeah,” Virgil says, and at last manages to scrub off the sauce.

“What brought this on, Virgil?” She asks, and he hears the flick of the percolator being turned back on. So Virgil’s in for a long talk, probably.

Virgil takes a breath, lets it out. “Dunno,” he fibs. “Just—got a few postcards from colleges, and stuff. Scholarships. That kind of thing.”

He sets aside another plate, and Cora’s hand rubs between his shoulder blades.

“Well,” she says. “Of course, I’m all for you doing what makes _you_ happy. But college is a big choice, V.”

“There is a reason I’m bringing this up to you first,” Virgil says dryly. He isn’t looking forward to _that_ conversation.

Cora chuckles, similarly dry, before patting him on the shoulder. “Finish up that stack and we’ll have a chat over some coffee, all right?”

Cora takes it well, better than he thought she would, really—she mostly talks finances, in case Uncle doesn’t want to actually bankroll this, with an agreement to actually pay him with money to start up some savings, along with a fair few _are you sure about this_ ’s sprinkled in for flavor—but she sends him off with a container full of day-old pastries and baked goods, so he figures that’s her sign of approval.

It takes a week before he and Uncle are sitting at the dinner table and Virgil says mildly, “I’m thinking of going to college.”

“Ridiculous,” Uncle huffs, and it takes until Virgil’s in the family library scanning over the grimoires for a very particular ritual two days later when Uncle storms in, glowering.

“ _College,”_ he sneers, as if it’s a dirty word.

“Yup,” Virgil says idly, popping the _p,_ not looking up from the grimoire he’s scanning.

He tosses something at Virgil’s feet, and Virgil squints. It’s a college test prep book.

“So you talked to Cora,” Virgil says, and turns the page of the grimoire, even as he’s quietly pleased about this kind of support from her, and then he smiles at Uncle with a level of even placidness he knows will drive Uncle _insane._ “And you’ve got no problem with it, right?”

Uncle looks, predictably, immediately irritated. Virgil has slowly and steadily figured out over the years that Uncle has some kind of curse on him, which basically makes it so Uncle can never say exactly what he means. Virgil’s gotten pretty good at reading him, over the years—it’s a language of lies and riddles, but sometimes it’s just kind of funny to take Uncle’s words immediately at face value, no matter how much his tone or facial expression negated it. Like his Dad did, the last day of his life.

Uncle leaves the room, and Virgil resumes researching the grimoires.

Virgil starts plodding through the prep book in his free time. He learns way more about algebra than Mr. Baldini’s ever taught him, so that’s something.

Virgil’s trying to reverse-engineer a science problem ( _how is any of this science?!)_ when Uncle skulks behind him.

“What if I forbid it?” He demands.

“ _Are_ you forbidding it?” Virgil asks mildly, scratching a note in the margin. Uncle sweeps out in a huff.

The song and dance continues over the next couple thoughts, between their usual business: Uncle proposes a line of thought in the most direct way he could, which meant that he puts it vaguely, and Virgil counteracts with a pointed, direct question, which Uncle couldn’t respond to without Virgil taking his word literally. Uncle mostly gets back at Virgil by having Virgil do the dirty work, which Virgil doesn’t actually mind; quests into the forest with Crow, one of Magpie and Goose’s kits, to gather plants and herbs, digging through the grimoires for rare spells they haven’t recited in years, weeding and maintaining the garden.

Between all that, Virgil does homework, and works steadily through prep books, and ignores the town as a whole, and helps out at Cora’s, who is starting to pay him with actual money so he can start saving for school.

Crow, who takes mostly after Magpie in appearance and nothing in personality, butts her head into Virgil’s legs during one of these quests.

“Explain it to me again,” she demands.

“College is like the school in town,” Virgil says patiently, “where I sit with a lot of kids to learn things like how to read and do math. Except college is further away, with a lot more kids, and is very expensive."

“Expensive,” she repeats.

“It costs a lot of money,” Virgil says, and tries not to sigh. “Look, trying to explain the economy to you is like you trying to explain stray cat politics to me. It makes perfect sense to you and is very important, _to you,_ but I don’t understand, like, at all.”

Crow accepts this with a dip of her head, and proceeds to pounce on a leaf that seemed to move slightly in the breeze. Virgil squashes a smile and waits patiently for her to stop attempting to kill it with her hind legs.

“Why do you bring that thing anywhere?” Crow asks, and Virgil glances at the prep book shoved into his backpack, nestled beside the various bags of plants Virgil had picked up.

“To get into college I have to take a big test,” Virgil says. “This helps me study.”

“ _Test,”_ Crow scoffs. Crow seems to mostly disdain every person who isn’t Virgil or Cora, and Uncle only gets a pass because Virgil lives with him. “I never understand you humans.”

Virgil allows himself a brief laugh. “Yeah, me either, I guess.”

“So why go to a place surrounded by ones you don’t understand?” Crow asks. “You already have your territory staked out here. Why leave it?”

“So I can at least _try_ to understand,” Virgil says. “And I might find bigger territory there. I don’t know, college is supposed to, like. Help me figure out what I’m _doing_ with myself.”

“You _know_ what you’re doing,” she says, pointed. “You are the Virgil—why do you have to leave to figure that out?”

Virgil shakes his head, and straightens up again, settling his backpack on his shoulders. “It’s just one of those things, Crow, okay?”

She lets out a petulant, cattish sigh, and bats at his shoelaces before prancing away ahead of him.

Virgil thinks the day he goes to take the ACT is the day that Uncle seems to realize he’s serious about this.

Virgil takes the old beater that’s parked behind the house, mostly in case of emergency (Cora’s the one who taught him to drive, but since everything in Ligerion’s mostly in walking distance, it doesn’t come up much) and drives to the nearest proctored testing station, a couple towns over. Auntie packs him lunch, and snacks, and a water bottle, and kisses him on the cheek, for luck.

Sitting down for the exam itself seems to clear Virgil’s mind to a level of distinct focus he’s never really experienced before. Virgil thinks magic might play a part, too; his pencil drifts to certain answers without his hand guiding it when he falters over a problem, and Virgil trusts magic, so he goes with those options. He writes the essay part, he remembers all of the tips buried in his prep books, he sucks at the butterscotch candies Cora’s packed away during the break. He double-checks his information on the scantron is right ( _Virgil Fae, Loch Ligerion, send his scores to the nearest colleges)_ before he has to hand it in.

Walking out, Virgil lets out a slow breath of relief, pops another butterscotch, and sits on the hood of the car, waiting for the candy to dissolve in his mouth. He thinks it went okay? He can take it again if it doesn’t. But he thinks this was… okay, mostly. He feels kind of drained—a bit like he does after a more complex ritual or a spell. He eats his lunch sitting on the hood of the car, watching the other kids file out and go to their own cars, finishes down to the last crust of his peanut butter and jelly, to the last drop of water, before he gets off the hood and blinks at something on the ground. Something growing there that definitely wasn’t growing before.

Virgil knows the flower. _Statice._ The purple-y ones. He knows they’re sometimes called _sea lavender,_ even though there’s no relation.

He also knows that they’re flowers of rememberance, sympathy, and success.

It’s the last day before spring break starts when he walks into the Fae house to see Uncle in the green room, back to him. It’s where he usually is, most days—any time Virgil had to picture Uncle in his head, it was in his green room, surrounded by his plants. Virgil may be decent with plants, but Uncle’s gifted with them. Regardless, Virgil fully intends to ignore him and go up to his room, but that’s when Uncle turns, holding up the envelope he’s sure has his test results, and Virgil’s fingers twitch to take it from him.

“ _If_ ,” he says. “ _If_ you go to college. There would be… conditions. Terms.”

“I figured,” Virgil says, because Virgil might be family, but that just meant that Virgil understands the ways of Faes better than anyone else. He can’t get something unless he gives something back, that’s the way Faes work.

Uncle stands, then, smoothly tucking the envelope of test results into his shirt pocket. “Cora’s?”

“Fine,” Virgil says.

They walk in silence, Crow falling into step beside him at some point, and Virgil can barely bring himself to reach down and scratch under her chin in the way she likes, because he’s too focused on the white of the envelope that’s a stark contrast against Uncle’s brown shirt. The sun is surprisingly strong, for a March day, and Virgil tries his best to enjoy it, but he can’t, _because he needs to know what’s in that envelope._

Virgil ignores how half the diner seems to quicken their meals to clear out as soon as possible when Uncle and Virgil enter and head for a booth.

“Hello, boys,” Cora says, and Uncle gestures for her to sit down, removing the envelope from his pocket, and Cora gasps, sliding in beside Uncle.

“Is that what I think it is?” She asks.

So Virgil _might_ have despaired his potential score a few times to her. Maybe more than a few.

“Yep,” Virgil says, throat dry, as he fiddles with it.

“Well? Go on!”

Virgil tries to swallow, and uses a butter knife as a letter opener, easing open the letter. He scans the page, and blinks. Then he double-checks they have the right information on the envelope, and then triple-checks it.

“Well?” Cora asks, and Virgil looks up from the letter, and then back at the letter again.

“I,” Virgil says, and swallows, then glances up again. “I got a thirty-two.”

“Is that good?” Uncle asks, and Cora smacks him on the arm with her dish towel.

“It’s out of thirty-six,” Virgil says, staring still.

“What Virgil _means_ is,” Cora says, with a fond roll of her eyes, “is _yes,_ that’s _very_ good. And on your first try, too!” She wiggles out of the booth so she could smack a loud, obnoxious kiss to Virgil’s cheek. “I knew you could do it, hon, I’m so _proud_ of you! Oh, let me see if I have the fixings for a cake—”

Virgil looks up, alarmed. “You don’t need to—”

“I _want_ to,” she insists. “Not every day your great-nephew gets a thirty-two on his ACT!” She kisses him on the cheek again, pats Uncle on the shoulder, and swans off to the kitchen, beaming.

“Well,” Uncle says. “That’s… something.”

“It is,” Virgil agrees, and looks up, carefully folding the letter back up again. “I found statice growing, near the car. After the exam.”

“Well, there you go,” he says, sounding more pleased about the flowers than his score. Virgil rolls his eyes, and Cora gleefully plunks down a massive chocolate milkshake in front of Virgil, ruffling his hair.

“For a starter,” she says, and adds, “I won’t even complain you brought that cat in here during business hours, just this once.”

“I didn’t—” Virgil begins, but glances down to see Crow staring up at him, with her petulant amber eyes.

“You let the door _shut on me,”_ she complains, and leaps up onto the table, pawing a little at the letter. “What is this?”

“It’s—” Virgil begins, and shakes his head. “You know what, it’s just good news, that’s all.”

“That is good,” she says, pleased, and immediately tries to stick her face into his milkshake, leaving Virgil to fend her off with his elbows.

“This is _poisonous for you,”_ he scolds her.

The night passes thusly; the townspeople clearing the hell out of dodge as soon as they see both Faes in a booth, Cora dropping off whatever junk food Virgil could possibly want without fussing about adding fruits or vegetables, and Crow trying to stick her paws into everything. Uncle, looking increasingly thoughtful, brings out a piece of paper and scratches down notes on it throughout, as Virgil tells Crow that yes he knows chocolate _smells_ tasty but she couldn’t _eat it_ because it was _bad for her,_ several times.

Cora manages to whip up red velvet cupcakes, somehow, sending them home with the dozen, with a purple icing _32!_ on top of the cream cheese frosting on Virgil’s first one, ruffling his hair fondly and repeating how proud she is of him before smacking another kiss on his cheek.

When they get home, Uncle passes over the scrap piece of paper.

“Look it over,” he says simply, and pats Virgil on the shoulder, once, before departing to do… something. Maybe sleep, maybe do some kind of spell, Virgil isn’t sure.

Virgil and Crow hunker up in his room together as Virgil carefully scans over the terms, and it’s not as bad as he was expecting, really. Virgil’s to come home during all extended breaks from school, and while he’s home he’s to help with the family business, and help Cora. His major has to applicable to the family business, which suits Virgil fine, and Virgil’s to call or write Cora with updates on his life. In return, Uncle will pay for things (books, tuition, livings costs, so on) and Virgil figures that’s a pretty decent deal.

Virgil checks to make sure he’s not missing any fine print, or invisible ink, or something, but signs it _Virgil Owens Fae_ and leaves it on the kitchen table, where it’s gone in the morning.

After that, it’s a game of frantic bursts of action and long waiting periods. There’s applications, and then waiting for those applications to come back. There’s applying for scholarships, and waiting to hear back from those. Cora’s already making noises about shopping for Virgil’s dorm room, and Uncle’s only stipulation is that Virgil has _some_ kind of garden in his room, despite the fact that Virgil’s research says that most dorms are the size of a shoebox. Cora’s also making noises about Virgil getting his first-ever cellphone, plus a laptop, which sounds kind of cool to Virgil, and the laptop is also apparently kind of required. The cellphone’s mostly in case of emergencies, and also so Virgil can _blend in._ Which is, frankly, a hilarious concept.

Cora actually seems more excited about the whole thing than he is; Virgil mostly considers the amount of people (he wants a lot) and distance from home (hopefully not too far, but far enough that Uncle couldn’t exactly drop in whenever he felt like he needed an assistant _that second)_ and that’s about the sum of it.

He ends up accepting the offer from the big state school; it’s about two hours away directly from Loch Ligerion, but Virgil’s going to have to take a bus up, probably, so that adds about thirty minutes to his travel time. They offer him a decent scholarship, plus a discount on the shiny new tech items that Virgil apparently needs now, and generally a lot more _stuff_ there than there is in Loch Ligerion. Virgil, secretly, starts a count-down in his head to move-in day.

Virgil’s the only one in his high school graduating class of thirteen that’s leaving town; the rest of the town seems quietly relieved by this. Most of the other kids in his grade are prepping to take over family businesses; Jimmy with the gas station/mechanic shop, Joshua and Abigail Brott with the grocery—apparently, Ruth Garcia’s going to step in to the library, which Virgil figures is good, because Great-Aunt Margot’s getting old, and also Virgil still hates Great-Aunt Margot a fair bit.

Weirdly? It takes until Virgil’s unpacking everything after move-in that now that he’s away from Loch Ligerion, the thing he probably should have been looking forward to most was the fact that no one would hear the name _Fae_ and immediately think _beware._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n** : the characters of Gillian and Ser Magpie are heavily inspired by (and some descriptions cribbed from) the original _Practical Magic_ by Alice Hoffman. Virgil’s middle name, Owens, is in tribute to the original main characters of the book/movie, the Owens sisters, Sally and Gillian.


	3. Chapter 3

Virgil hates Halloween, because Virgil hates Halloween parties, because somebody always plays “I Put a Spell on You,” and Virgil just hates that song. Also, people, but that’s a separate issue.

This Halloween party, with all its sins, has played it _Three. Times._

Virgil’s seriously considering just going back to the dorm. Elliott’s off, trying to find Mitchell, so they’ll be fine, and Virgil might get the room to himself for one night; Halloween’s a good night for magical energy, and that’s just about the only good thing about this whole mess.

“Hey,” and a tug at Virgil’s sleeve. “What are _you_ supposed to be?”

Virgil turns, taking an automatic half-step back, but bumping into someone’s back. Why does it have to be so _crowded?_

The boy talking to him is grinning, dressed to the nines in what Virgil is (reliably) sure a version of Prince Charming, from Cinderella. He is not _entirely_ sure, because the dude is mostly wearing the gold shoulder guard things, gloves, and the red pants, without the cream-colored shirt. Instead, he is quite glittery, and quite shirtless. The whole thing’s topped off with a crown sitting crooked on his carefully-styled hair.

Virgil points to the headband he’d nabbed from one of the girls on his floor, and the black triangles he’d taped to the top of them. “Black cat.”

The prince tsks, and says, “No whiskers?”

Virgil shrugs.

“I’m giving you whiskers,” the prince decides, and offers his gloved hand with the most gallant bow he can get away with in tiny quarters.

Virgil, mostly just ready to get out of this packed room, accepts it, albeit with a fair amount of eye-rolling.

The prince enters a bathroom, where there’s a girl sitting on the counter of the sink, who turns a full-wattage beam at them.

“Hi!”

Virgil braces himself. He’s been at college a little over two months, and this is technically his first party, but he’s already been made aware of how incredibly friendly drunk girls are.

“Hello, my dear,” the prince says in a low, sultry voice, taking her hand and bowing to kiss it. The girl giggles, blushing nearly red enough to match the red cross on her hat, but that might have also been from the alcohol.

“This man—sorry, I didn’t get your name…?”

“Virgil,” he mumbles.

“ _Veerge-uhhll,_ ” the prince overenunciates, “is currently criminally offending me with his lack of _effort_ for this Halloween costume. Would you happen to have some eyeliner with you, kind lady?”

As it turns out, Nurse Tipsy _does,_ and fishes an eyeliner pen (???) out of her bra ( _???)_ and wobbles down from the counter, nearly overbalancing on her tottering high heels.

“I’m gonna make you _pretty,”_ she declares loudly, and the prince actually claps happily as she pats the counter.

“Do I have to.”

“You’re funny,” the prince says, and nudges Virgil none-too-delicately over to the counter so the girl can focus on his face properly.

“You have pretty eyes,” she coos to Virgil, uncapping the pen thing.

“Um,” Virgil says, knowing that the prince will likely not be helping him in this situation, “Thank… you?”

No one’s ever really called his eyes pretty before. They’re usually heralded as a sign of Satan, or whatever rumor’s circling about how Faes get their powers.

“I just have plain brown, see?” she says, and flutters her eyelashes at him for emphasis.

“Ooh, me too,” the prince says happily, who’s taken up camp leaning against the counter that Virgil’s currently sitting on. “Twinsies!”

“Okay, pretty eyes shut, Catman,” the girl says, waving a hand at Virgil, and Virgil draws in a narrow breath before he obliges.

“Pretty boy, face out of my work,” he hears Nurse Tipsy declare.

“Roman, actually,” says the prince—Roman, apparently—and she giggles.

“ _Charmed,_ I’m _sure,”_ she says in an affected British accent.

“The funniest part is, my last name’s actually Prince,” Roman says, and Virgil squints open his eye as the pen leaves it, the girl gasping.

“Shut up, no way!”

“Scout’s honor,” he promises, and digs around in his pocket. “Student ID, look.”

Virgil looks too. Yep, _Roman Prince,_ and how did he actually manage to look decent in that picture? Virgil looks like he’s just crawled from the sweet embrace of death in his.

“Guess that makes Halloween costumes easy,” Nurse Tipsy says, and then Virgil fights the urge to sneeze as the pen starts scratching at his nose.

“Let me guess,” Roman says. “Nursing major?”

“Too easy,” Nurse Tipsy says with a sniff. “Engineering, actually. But, like, how often do you see sexy engineers? _Never_ , that’s when.”

They do some chitchat; apparently, Roman Prince is a double major in theater and film studies (which… okay,) and Nurse Tipsy’s twin brother lives here, apparently, who Roman also knows.

“Who do you know here, Kovu?” Roman asks, and Virgil tries his best not to move his cheek too much when he speaks, as Nurse Tipsy is sketching a line there with laser-like intensity.

“My roommate’s boyfriend lives here. I think. Or he knows someone who lives here.”

“No one, got it,” Roman says, and Virgil rolls his eyes at him with a bit of a sneer.

“Made the mistake of bumping into you, didn’t I?” Virgil points out dryly.

Ooh, Virgil’s _annoyed_ him. Virgil tried to not use magic for like, his first week, and then realized that was a shitty idea and has gone back to reading anyone he comes across. The prince’s laughter is too airy, too light, and Virgil can tell he’s just about touched a nerve there.

“Aaand, _done,”_ Nurse Tipsy announces, and Roman applauds as Virgil squints in the mirror.

“There sure are lines,” Virgil says, tilting his head this way and that. He’s been given a black nose and six whiskers, in addition to some stuff around his eyes—he has since learned that this is called a _cat eye,_ because Elliott lines their eyes sometimes too.

“And now you look like you’ve put at least a little effort into it,” Roman declares. “Thank you, m’lady.”

“No prob,” she says, and waves. “I should probably go find my brother. Have fun!”

“And you!” Roman calls, as Virgil turns from the mirror to find Roman closer than expected. Virgil backs up immediately, so he bumps into the counter again, fingers curling tight around it, fingernails trying their best to dig into knockoff marble.

To his credit (and Virgil isn’t giving him much, like, _at all)_ he doesn’t back in closer, but it’s a small bathroom. Virgil can see the glitter that’s dusted all up and down his chest, the styrofoam sword tucked into his waistband, the glitter that, somehow, has gotten stuck in his incredibly ridiculous eyelashes.

There’s an energy there, an energy Virgil’s never felt directed at himself before. Thick and cloying, it’s an energy that immediately sets Virgil on edge, makes him want to bare his teeth at this prince and _hiss,_ burst out and get fresh air, squirm free, all at once.

He’s smiling at Virgil, a little, entirely unaware of how tense Virgil’s gotten, and murmurs, “It wasn’t _that_ much of a mistake, was it?” A hand reaches out to fiddle with Virgil’s cat ears, brush delicately across his bangs and down his cheek.

Oh. _Oh._

 _That’s_ what that energy is. No person in their right _mind_ would go for a Fae in Ligerion, of course he didn’t get what this was—and Virgil is _not_ having it.

Virgil allows his lips to curl up in a not-even-slightly-nice way. “Even more than I originally thought,” he sneers, and maybe nudges his shoulder into Roman’s a bit too sharply, flinging open the door and stalking into the hall.

The air out here isn’t any fresher. It’s too hot, a building full of bodies, and Virgil very suddenly needs to get _out,_ right now, walk back to the dorm, feel the crisp fall air on his face, scrub free the stupid makeup. He digs out the cellphone Cora got him (touchscreen, black, so expensive Virgil felt something _cry_ a little when they were talking to the cell phone people) and shoots a text to Elliott as he shoulders roughly through the crowd, trying to remember where a door to the outside is.

 **virgil:** hey I’m gonna go back to brooks, have fun with mitchell

He doesn’t wait for a response, and at last, at last, down the narrow rickety staircase, and out the door, into the front yard, where a boy is patting his buddy’s back as said buddy throws his guts up into the storm drain. Charming. Virgil wrinkles his nose and turns back to the main road, digging out the cell phone he bought for himself (at a convenience store, where you buy the minutes separate, and was much, much cheaper) scanning for messages.

In the single week where Virgil tried to be a normal person, and the subsequent refusal, he also figured out that he’d need flexible pocket change. So he’d stuck up flyers at random points across their gargantuan campus, with this cell phone’s number, advertising tarot readings (five bucks for a basic layout, more specific readings priced on request) and so far, he’s done pretty good business.

There’s a new message from one of his regulars, who’s sent _reading for day of the dead @ the café, 10 work for you?_

Virgil sends back an affirmative, deletes the joke messages (he knew there’d be some, which was why he got a burner phone for this) and that manages to occupy him for the ten-minute walk back to Brooks dorm.

Virgil gets into the elevator and punches it for floor three (he doesn’t want to fuss with stairs at the moment) and stalks off the elevator, ignoring the group of people in the lounge, and letting himself into the room he shared with Elliott, pausing only to kick off his boots before entering the bathroom, scowling.

“Oh,” Virgil says, faltering, and his suitemate (the bathroom was of use by the four of them; Virgil, Elliott, and the bathroom connected to another dorm room) waved at him, toothpaste foaming up his mouth.

“S’awrigh,” Logan mutters, and scowls, Virgil can only assume it’s because he sounds so undignified. “Near-y done.”

“Um, okay,” Virgil says, and crosses over to the other sink, grabbing a paper towel on the way. Logan’s all right; a bit uptight, but mostly quiet and generally a decent guy.

Logan’s roommate, on the other hand, could _suck it._ Brad’s left the bathroom a mess so many times Virgil’s lost count, and it’s only October. He’d been woken the night before classes started to, what he’d eventually realized, were bed springs squeaking at the sounds of Brad’s first enthusiastic romp between the sheets of the school year. Virgil would discover the next morning, to a sniffily huffing Logan, that he’d essentially been foisted from the room, but he’d ended up wandering to the twenty-four hour café on campus, the same one Virgil reads fortunes at sometimes. Virgil had thought that frat boys like Brad were something of an urban legend (says the boy with magic) but he can now unfortunately say that they were _entirely real._

Virgil commences scrubbing at his face, and Logan spits, before rinsing the brush.

“Apologies in advance if my,” his lip curls, “ _charming_ roommate does something vulgar, again. He’s been talking about how Halloween is _an epic night for partying, bro.”_

His voice is so flat, it can’t even be an attempt at an impersonation, piercing blue eyes holding nothing resembling humor, but Virgil laughs awkwardly anyways.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and waves his free hand, scowling at the way the black clung to his cheeks. “I mean, not your fault.”

Logan nods, Virgil flaps a hand at him, and Logan walks into his room, closing the door behind him. Virgil scrubs harder at his face.

At last, Virgil manages to scrub all of the dark lines free (silently cursing Roman Prince, but without intent, because bad things happen when Virgil thinks darkly about other people) and water his plants for the evening. He swaps into pajamas, sets an alarm, climbs into his lofted bed, and crashes immediately into sleep.

Virgil sips slowly at his scalding coffee, watching the mostly-hungover crowd of Busy Bean clamor for their caffeine, greasy breakfast sandwiches, and sugary pastries.

The bell dings loudly as someone rushes in, swinging his backpack and narrowly missing someone.

“Sorry!” He squeaks, and Virgil hides a smile in his coffee cup. There’s a reason this is one of his favorite regulars.

He waves eagerly to Virgil as soon as he lays eyes on him, overly large pastel blue sweater falling down his arm, and points exaggeratedly to the counter. Virgil nods, tilts his cup at him, and starts digging around his bag, picking out his various tarot decks.

There are some regulars who try and see the various amount of readings Virgil can do (many) but Patton tends to stick pretty strongly to the traditional reading stuff: tarot, palm, tea leaves, once.

There’s his first tarot deck that Uncle got him, the decks he’s inherited and been given by other relatives over the years, a couple he made himself; and Patton crashes into the seat across from him, fiddling with his glasses.

“Sorry,” he says again, beaming, “I ran into this girl I went to grade school with, crazy small world, right?”

“Right,” Virgil says.

Patton holds up the baked good he’d gotten. “D’you wanna try this? It’s some kind of, like, cherry almond thing—”

“ _No_ ,” Virgil says, and realizes how loud he said that. “No,” he says, quieter. “I hate almonds. Um, do you…?”

He gestures to the various decks, before Patton’s eyes zero in on something.

“ _Is that a cat one,”_ he breathes, with the kind of bated breath reverence people tend to reserve for actual cats, and Virgil—flushes.

He’d forgotten he’d even brought this one to college. It was the first deck he ever made himself, when he’d been about six or seven—childish drawings of cats in the major and minor arcanas.

“I’m—oh,” Virgil says, and clears his throat. “This one?”

“Yeah, it’s cute!” Patton says brightly, and Virgil puts away the other ones.

“What do you want me to read for, today? Got a question, relationship stuff, past, present, future…?”

Patton hums, takes a sip of his hot chocolate, and says brightly, “I’m always asking you questions. Do you just wanna, like. Read me?”

Virgil blinks. Patton’s gone about all this backwards—he started off with pointed questions, and now he’s asking for the general stuff, the kind of thing Virgil would do for a first read.

“Okay,” Virgil says at last, because he’s been holding off on reading Patton too deeply, not wanting to ruin the sunshiney image Virgil has of him. “So, I think I’ll do the obstacle spread for you, then. Offers advice for an ongoing event in your life. Also called the success spread. Sound good?”

Patton nods, looking attentive. Patton gets this look on his face whenever Virgil reads for him, the way a kid looks whenever they see a magic trick. It’s kind of awesome.

“Okay,” Virgil repeats. “Five cards, so five dollars sounds good to me.”

Patton carefully plucks five ones from his wallet and hands them over.

Virgil, in turn, hands over the cards. “Shuffle ‘em for as short or long as you want,” he says.

Patton does, and Virgil has him cut the cards into three piles, and then takes the deck back, laying out the five cards, hovering a hand over them.

They’re all spread out in a sort of sideways T shape, and Virgil breathes, carefully, clearing his thoughts before he dives into it. Uncle said once (in the way Uncle can say anything) that readings like this were just like a conduit, to reading magic, the way that lightning rods existed. Sure, Virgil could probably read enough through looking at Patton, but with tarot, or palm reading, or tea leaves, or even the more esoteric ones—that brought Virgil’s focus in that much sharper.

“Okay,” Virgil murmurs, and taps the first card with his pointer finger. “This is the concern, or the obstacle.” He taps the next. “The direct influences. Could be a person, a situation, or your feelings that are tied up in the situation.” The next. “Hidden influences—what you might not know about the situation.” The next. “Help. Something that could help you overcome an obstacle or reach success.” The last. “And this one’s advice, based on what the rest of the spread’s revealed. With me so far?”

Patton nods, staring round-eyed at the cards.

Virgil breathes, in, out, and then flips the first card over.

“Ah,” Virgil says delicately, staring at the card—Virgil’s childish hand had decided to draw two cats, with their tails making a heart shape—except this was reversed. “The lovers. Upside-down. It can mean a variety of things—entering a relationship for the wrong reasons, poor financial decisions—but you’ve had a breakup, haven’t you?”

Patton’s pale face tells him all he needs to know.

“Not recent, I don’t think,” Virgil adds thoughtfully, allowing his finger to idly trace the edge of the card. “No, your obstacle surrounds the emotions in that relationship. Moving forward, moving on. You’re hanging onto a lot of hurt feelings—I know I’ve mentioned it to you before, but the happy face on the outside is on the outside alone.”

During Virgil’s first reading for Patton, Virgil had grumblingly given him a hug, unmasking, because everything in the line of Patton’s back screamed that he’d needed one. And Patton had gaped at him like Virgil had cracked the secrets of the universe.

“I,” Patton says, and his voice breaks, before he clears his throat. “I—yes.”

Virgil pauses, staring at him a little, before he flips the second one.

“Direct influences,” he says, and examines the knight-cat, three swords plunged into the ground, upside down again. “Three of swords, reversed. Recovery after a painful loss.”

Patton swallows, and nods. Virgil allows him a moment to hide his face by taking a long gulp of coffee.

“You’re trying to recover,” Virgil says. “That much is clear. You’re _trying_ to be happy, you’re _trying_ to move on. But those feelings keep coming around and around again, and you don’t know _why,_ because you keep _trying_ so hard. The recovery’s the most direct influence on your breakup—or, well, the _aftermath,_ for you. Almost as soon as it happened, you wanted to recover, but that’s been a struggle for you. It feels like it’s two steps forward and twelve steps back.”

“Yes,” Patton says. “Yes, that’s exactly—how are you doing this?”

Virgil shrugs. “You ask me the same thing every reading.”

The next. “This is hidden influences, what you might not know is affecting it.” He flips it over, and peers at it. It’s a single cat and a cartoonish goblet full of milk. “Ace of Cups. Well, that’s not surprising, I just mentioned that you’re having trouble moving on, this proves it. Ace of Cups tends to point to a relationship that might have left you a little emotionally scarred—but there’s a good part, too,” he adds hastily, as Patton’s face drops.

“It means that since the end of that relationship, it’s helped set a foundation for your ability to adapt, to grow from all of this. You’ve gone through some of the worst, now you’re ready for some of the best. Or getting ready, I suppose. If the Lovers had been right-side-up, this would promise happiness in your love life—if I may take a bit of liberty with this, it’s that you expect to _be_ happy in the future. If Ace of Cups had been flipped, it’d be repressed feelings that are hidden—but I suspect that’s not hidden to you at all, is it?”

Patton looks spooked and clears his throat. “I,” he begins. “Guess it’s not.”

Virgil nods. “Well, it’s the progress that’s all tied up in there,” he says, pointing to Patton’s chest. “It’s _getting_ to feeling okay that’s getting you stumped. Essentially, the hidden influence is trying to _get_ you to move on, but your direct influence all about how you’re focused on the recover.”

“Help.” A cat with a scythe, in a black robe. “Death. Not necessarily a bad thing,” he adds wryly, at the spooked look on Patton’s face. “Usually it means transformation, transition. I’d argue a transition in your life would help a lot with overcoming feelings about a breakup—coming to this new place seems like a natural one, but transitions aren’t always natural, right? There’ll be change in your life, soon. Something big or small. But it’s going to help with all those feelings in there.”

“Okay,” Patton says, voice small. “That all sounds… good.”

Virgil nods, and taps the last one. “Advice,” he says, and flips it. The same knight cat, except with nine swords, reversed. Virgil blinks.

“Huh.”

“What?” Patton asks, staring at the card, and then at Virgil. “What, what does that one mean?”

“Well,” Virgil says slowly. “Right side up, it’s a feeling of failure, or anxiety. Reversed, it’s—well. It’s sadness. Depression.”

Patton blinks at the card and directs his gaze at Virgil. “I don’t get it.”

Patton has the clearest green eyes Virgil’s ever seen—it’s almost like Patton’s eyes are marbles, or fine glass, or something. They’re a lovely shade of light green, as soft and gentle as Patton is.

“I might,” Virgil says. “I—all of this has been about how you’re struggling to move on, to move forwards. It’s about the emotional scarring, and hurt feelings. It was ugly—well, at the start, but mostly it was drawn out, left you drained and exhausted at the end. And you aren’t quite sure you’ve ever recovered from that. And all this… _happy,_ that you’ve been trying to make yourself feel…” Virgil pauses, chooses his words carefully. “You haven’t let yourself have any time to be sad over it, have you?”

Patton looks a bit as if Virgil’s whacked him upside the head with a frying pan.

“Not right at the breakup, you let yourself feel sad then,” Virgil says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But after a certain point, you just… shut it off. It had been long enough, and you felt ashamed of being sad, like that. Even now, on your bad days, you’re upset that you haven’t move forward, because it’s been so _long._ I think this card is saying… that you _have_ to. You have to let yourself feel sad, feel the pain, before you can really grow. And when you do, it’s going to be beautiful. But it’s letting yourself get to that point. It’s letting yourself grow. You have to weather the storm before you see the rainbow, Patton.”

Patton’s face, at last, breaks out into a smile, eyes crinkling with it. “I _love_ rainbows.”

Virgil smiles a little, despite himself. “Well, there you go.”

Patton always likes to wind down sessions with a bit of chit-chat, and today’s no different; he rambles excitedly at Virgil about how he’s gotten a job at the daycare facility provided by the university, and how he gets to spend time with a ton of really weird, really awesome kids, and how it is both incredibly rewarding and incredibly exhausting at the same time. Virgil’s always kind of wondered about why he talks like this; to feel like he’s gotten his money’s worth, maybe? Or Patton’s just genuinely a happy, chatty person, or maybe a combination of the two. Virgil doesn’t really mind it.

They end up talking (well, mostly Patton talking and Virgil listening) as they finish up their drinks, and walk out together, only for Patton to let out a loud, overdrawn gasp, whacking Virgil a little on the arm.

“Cat!”

“Oh, it’s Geo,” Virgil says absentmindedly, and winces to himself as Patton manages to turn only a little of his attention to him.

“Geo?”

“I always see him outside of the geology building,” Virgil says sheepishly. “So. Geo.”

His name is, as a matter of fact, Geo, and he does hang around the geology building, but Virgil isn’t supposed to _know_ that, so.

“You can come over here, if you want,” Virgil says noncommitally, as Patton coos and makes kissy-noises to lure over Geo.

Geo gives him a look, as if to truly impress upon Virgil that he’s only doing this because he _wants_ to, and Virgil starts digging around his pockets as Patton crouches, hand outstretched, eyes round, mouth slightly agape.

Geo sniffs at Patton’s fingers, and then deigns to allow Patton to pet him, and Patton looks up at Virgil, beaming, as if this stray cat wandering over is the best part of his whole entire _week._

Virgil, at last, manages to dig out one of the cat treats that he’s got planted all throughout his hoodie pockets, and sets it on the ground in front of Geo, who snaps it up basically immediately.

Patton looks at him, smiling still. “You just carry cat treats on you?”

Virgil shrugs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Cats like me.”

Geo permits Patton to pet him for a minute or so before he prances off, and Patton rises to his feet, bumping Virgil good-naturedly.

“Looks like I’ll have to stick around you for cat access, huh?” He says, smiling.

“Guess so,” Virgil says, and Patton immediately sneezes.

“Sorry,” he says, waving a hand. “A bit allergic. Haven’t had my medicine today.”

“So, don’t hang around me until you’ve had your medicine,” Virgil says, with a nod. “Text me if you want to set up another reading.”

“Okay,” Patton says cheerfully, and waves. “Bye, Virgil!”

“Bye,” Virgil says, and goes to take care of his next reading.

November passes thusly; complaining in the bathroom with Logan, who is actually kind of funny, in a pretty deadpan way, and weekly readings with Patton, who always insists on finishing his drink with Virgil in the Busy Bean, even when a group of people tried to call Patton over to their table, and writing his bimonthly letters to Cora (and receiving responses in care packages full of baked goods) before there’s Thanksgiving break and Virgil’s packing up to go back to Loch Ligerion for a week.

Patton does his first slightly out-of-the-ordinary reading the week before, maculomancy, reading from Patton’s freckles, moles, and birthmarks.

“You have eight siblings?!” Virgil demands, as soon as he lays eyes on the configuration of freckles on his shoulders, and Patton laughs before listing them off: Patton, Penny, Parker, Peter, Piper, Pris, Poppy, Patrick, and Pearl. An age spread of thirteen years with one set of twins, Pris and Poppy. _Christ_.

Virgil learns more about him too; that he has a dead mother, that he’s protective, parental, almost. He’d had to step up when his mother died, when Patton was thirteen. Virgil allows the brief commiseration of both having dead parents. Virgil reads about how his mother died (swiftly onset cancer after Pearl was born) and Patton talks about it. Virgil doesn’t.

Cora’s making the drive up from Loch Ligerion rather than having Virgil take the bus, apparently too excited to see him, and Virgil finds he can’t really sit still either; he paces the sidewalk near the drive-up of Brooks for ten minutes before Cora’s due to arrive, allowing himself to smile wide when at last her beat-up old red pickup pulls into the lane, Cora hopping out with a squeal as soon as he’s put the car in park.

She pulls him into a hug, squeezing him tightly around the middle, and then cups his cheeks, turning his face this way and that.

“What are they feeding you at this school?” Cora says, half-scolding, and Virgil allows himself an awkward laugh.

“They’ve got dining halls, Auntie C.”

“Not good ones,” she sniffs, and pats his cheek. “You’re looking peaky. I want to see these subpar dining halls, and your room, and where all your classes are. You’re going to have to tell me where I can park, though, this campus is a _maze._ ”

Virgil pauses, blinking, a little gobsmacked. “You want the tour?”

Cora rolls her eyes at him a little. “No, I drove all the way here so I could turn around,” she teases. “ _Yes,_ I want the tour. Throw your bag in the back, we’ll park and do a bit of a wander, all right?”

Virgil ends up directing her to a parking garage that borders where campus lets into the rest of the town, before they get out and Cora takes Virgil’s elbow, smiling.

Virgil fumbles his way through the explanation of downtown—he spends most of his time on campus or in his dorm, really—and only really manages his stride when they get closer to the dorm, telling her the official uses of buildings, all while Cora lets out “oohs” and “ahhs” at appropriate moments. In an undertone, he tells her things he can hear from the buildings (mercury poisoning being the reason one of the labs shut down in a hushed rush, for one) when he’s sure no one can hear. They’re approaching the quad when he hears an excited voice say, “Is that you, Virgil?!” and he turns, blinking, as Cora beams at him, and then at the voice.

It’s Patton, of course, because he’s just about the only person here who sounds excited whenever Virgil shows up somewhere.

“Oh!” Patton squeaks, and smiles brightly, offering a hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—I’m Patton.”

“Cora,” she says warmly, shaking his hand in kind, and pats Virgil on the hand. “It’s about time we ran into one of your friends, Virgil, I was starting to think from your letters that you were going to follow your uncle into a life of hermitude.”

Virgil snorts, but rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and Patton laughs politely.

“About to leave for the holiday, then?” Patton asks.

“I’ve dragged my great-nephew into giving me a tour, first,” Cora says warmly, and Virgil shrugs at Patton.

“ _Great-_ nephew,” Patton says, and then smiles suddenly, snapping his fingers. “You’re the aunt with the diner, aren’t you?! Virgil’s mentioned you a couple times!”

“High praise indeed,” Cora says with a laugh. “If it wasn’t for me, I’m pretty sure Virgil wouldn’t have eaten a vegetable from the ages of five to fifteen.”

“ _Cora,”_ Virgil groans.

“Should I correct that to twenty-five?” Cora says, and Virgil tries not to groan more when Patton giggles, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder.

“I should probably get going,” he says, regretful, before he shakes Cora’s hand again. “It was really nice to meet you, though! Have a good break, Virgil!”

“Bye, Patton,” Virgil says, and watches as he rushes away.

“I like that boy,” Cora says. “He seems sweet. Polite. _Friendly._ ”

Virgil shrugs. “Patton’s nice to everyone.”

It’s true. Virgil and Patton can’t go into the Busy Bean without _someone_ recognizing Patton and wanting a word with him. Virgil wonders if Patton’s ever exhausted by it, sometimes—and Virgil’s pretty sure he is, but he hides it so well that Virgil wouldn’t know for sure without prying deep.

Cora gives him a Look, one of the ones which means _dealing with you Faes is a trial,_ and Virgil kindly ignores it, pointing out the statue that was gifted to the university for… something? It says so on the plaque, anyways. Virgil tugs Cora along to go look at it.

They spend a brisk fall afternoon wandering around campus; Cora turns her nose up at the dining halls but admits that the Busy Bean does coffee better than she does, and even buys a few things from the student center store—a mug, a sweatshirt, and a shirt that declares her to be a university aunt.

Eventually, Cora bundles up in her new sweatshirt and they start the long drive to Loch Ligerion. It’s thirty minutes of companionable silence before Cora speaks again.

“How did you meet that Patton boy?”

“Oh,” Virgil says vaguely. “I—well, I started a bit of a divination business. Just that, nothing else,” he adds, hasty. “Patton’s one of my regulars.”

“You never mentioned that in your letters,” Cora says. “Tell me about it.”

So Virgil does. He’s got three main regulars; Patton, one of the sorority girls who believes a lot in _hollistics,_ and an English major who mostly likes arguing with him over the symbolism of the cards. There were, of course, the joke offers—the ones who went mostly for a laugh, the ones who set up meetings and never showed—as well as the ones who went once, but got nervous about Virgil digging around in their lives.

Cora picks up the chatter about the diner, then; she talks about the things she’s considering adding or taking off the menu, stories about the hires from the high school, some of the small-town gossip he’s missed since going away to school.

It lasts them until they pull up to her driveway (Cora lives in the apartment on top of the diner) and Virgil stretches as soon as he gets out, sighing.

“ _YOU’RE BACK!”_

Virgil blinks out at the dark, and laughs, dropping to his knees, as Crow races over to him, steps thundering on the pavement, the odd little excited hop thrown in here and there, before she butts her head into his stomach at full force.

“Crow!” Virgil says, delighted, and she squirms into his arms so she could rub her cheeks all over his face and neck, purring like a machine.

“That one’s been hanging around here,” Cora says, amused. “Most of the cats seem like they’re looking for you—apparently Dee’s been finding cats in the oddest rooms of your house.”

Virgil grins, sheepish, as he tightens his hold onto Crow.

“You’re _back,”_ she repeats, delighted. “You smell so strange!”

“Thanks, Crow,” Virgil says dryly, and rises to his feet.

“What did she say?” Cora asks, holding the door open for him.

“That I smell strange.”

Cora laughs.

“Well, you _do,”_ Crow sniffs. “You don’t smell anything like the forest at all!”

“Because I haven’t been to the forest in three months,” Virgil says, following Cora inside. “I mean, I take walks on a nature trail, but it’s not the same, clearly, so—"

“ _Ridiculous,”_ Crow declares, and hops out of Virgil’s arms onto the soda counter.

“Coffee?” Cora asks.

“Great, thanks,” Virgil says, easing himself onto a stool as Crow parades the length of the counter and back again, sniffing Virgil again, before doing the cat-equivalent of wrinkling her nose.

“ _Hey_ ,” Virgil says. “I’ll be walking through the forest on my way back home, regardless, so it’ll be fixed soon enough.”

The _drip-drip_ of the percolator sounds in the background, as Virgil casts his eye over the diner. Same red-and-white booths, same red stools, same _Auntie Cora’s_ on the window. Nothing different, nothing changed. Was it strange that he’d kind of expected it to?

“And I’m feeding you a meal too,” Cora calls from the kitchen, “That dining hall seemed like it was on the same levels of a fast-food restaurant.”

Virgil wisely keeps his mouth shut about the fact that his dinner’s likely going to be spaghetti and meatballs, one of the quickest things on the menu—and not exactly the healthiest, either.

“Have you met any other cats,” Crow demands.

“None like you,” Virgil promises. “Only a few strays, here and there, but they aren’t very chatty, so they don’t stay very long. Mostly they just want a treat and a pet, and then they’re on their way.”

Crow does a little effusive nod. “Well, good,” she says, and taps him a little with her paw. “You’re taking me back with you.”

“I can’t take you back with me, I can’t have any animals in my dorm room,” Virgil says patiently. “Honestly, someone on my floor tried to get a goldfish and they had to fill out paperwork for it, I don’t think I can exactly smuggle in a cat.”

“ _Paperwork,”_ Crow scoffs, in the same tone she tended to save for _humans._ “I don’t have to stay in this room of yours, there must be land I can hunt upon.”

“Not really,” Virgil says honestly. “The wildlife pickings there are kind of pitiful. Well, there are a lot of really fat squirrels, but—”

Truly, the squirrels at college are massive, and also unlikely to run away unless you got within an arm’s distance.

“I can eat these fat squirrels,” Crow says immediately.

“Humans’d probably chase you off the grounds,” Virgil says, accepting a cup of coffee from Cora, who waves and disappears back into the kitchen. “You’re staying here. Besides, who else is gonna look after the forest like you do?”

Crow gives him a _look._ “I have siblings. You know them.”

“Oh, how are they?” Virgil prompts, and Crow gives him a little cattish sigh.

Cats don’t do small talk like humans do; Crow mostly just tells him that they are all in various areas of the forest, eating well and preparing for winter. Virgil slowly drinks his coffee as Crow updates him and Cora cooks. Not long after Crow’s done, Cora emerges from the kitchen and plunks a plate of spaghetti and meatballs in front of him, with absurd amounts of cheese, just how he likes it.

Cora settles at the seat behind the counter, smiling at him. “It was nice seeing your school, hon.”

Virgil, mouth full, shrugs one shoulder, because as much as Uncle doesn’t care about him talking with his mouth full, Cora cares quite a bit.

“You seem like you’re settling a bit more into yourself, there,” Cora continues. “Like you’re growing up.”

Ah. So she trapped him on purpose, then. Virgil commences chewing quicker so he can redirect the conversation soon—he’s not good at this emotional stuff.

Cora laughs a bit at his increased speed and pats his shoulder. “That’s all, I won’t torture you,” she teases. “Your uncle ought to be here soon enough to walk you home.”

That’s enough to make Virgil stop chewing.

“His official story is that he wants a cup tea, even though he hates the bagged stuff, and I’m sure he has tea at home,” Cora says, in a conspiratorial whisper. “I think he’s missed you. Weird to have an empty nest, you know.”

The concept seems ridiculous, but he doesn’t have the time to reject it, because the bell of the door opening rings behind him.

“Cora,” Uncle’s voice behind him is measured, and he adds, “Virgil.”

Virgil swallows his bite. “Uncle,” he says, twisting a little in his seat.

Uncle hasn’t changed much either. He’s taken off his bowler, so Virgil can see he’s gotten a haircut recently, but that’s all that Virgil can tell.

“What kind of tea, then?” Cora asks.

“Green would be horrendous,” Uncle says, and Cora nods, hopping down from her chair.

“You got it,” she says, and wanders off.

Virgil swallows some water, and says casually, “I’ve figured out a major.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. The school offers plant sciences as a major. Basically more specific botany.”

“I disapprove,” Uncle says, taking a seat so there’s an empty one between them.

“Fantastic,” Virgil says flatly. “I’ll email my advisor.”

Uncle sips his tea and dunks cookies into it as Virgil finishes his spaghetti, Cora’s inane chatter filling up all the silence between them. The way it has for years. It’s oddly comforting.

The week’s pretty non-eventful; he gets a few texts from Patton, they have Thanksgiving dinner in the diner like always, the cats attempt to sneak into his bag so many times that Virgil just keeps it shut unless he’s looking at it, to prevent any hitch-hikers. Crow digs into him with her claws, yowling loudly, when he goes to Cora’s to get dropped off at the bus station, and is mostly kept docile by Cora giving her a whole burger patty.

“You keep writing me,” Cora says sternly, when he’s waiting for the bus. “And you eat some vegetables with your meals, I can’t mother hen you from two hours away.”

“I will,” Virgil says, and accepts Cora’s hug with minimal squirming.

He boards the bus and spends most of the ride alternating between flicking disinterestedly through the reading he was supposed to do in the past week and watching the night lights fly by as they trundle along the highway.

He steps out at the station and prepares for the long walk back to his dorm.

He’s five minutes in when he’s aware there’s someone about to fall into step beside him, someone who sets his teeth on edge.

He barely suppresses a groan when he sees who it is. Roman Prince is not quite so subtle.

Virgil grits his teeth, and keeps walking, intent on ignoring each other in peace until they have to part ways ( _let it be soon)_ but apparently that doesn’t sound quite good to him.

“What are _you_ doing this time of night?” He bursts out, and Virgil rolls his eyes.

“It’s barely ten.” Which, in college terms, is on the same level as 7:30 back at Ligerion. “Besides, _you’re_ out at this time of night too.”

Roman sniffs and adjusts his duffle on his back. They keep walking. Virgil’s hoping that’s it.

Alas.

“Can’t you adjust your path, Virgil Prunes?” He snaps.

“I’m not adding fifteen minutes to this walk because you’re too immature to walk and shut up,” Virgil snaps back. “And _Virgil Prunes?_ What’s that supposed to even mean?!”

Roman sniffs. “ _Virgin Prunes,_ ” he says, as if Virgil’s an idiot. “Post-punk band. Irish.”

“Yeah, _wow,_ the fact I didn’t know the name of _one_ Irish post-punk band makes me a moron. Got it, _Roman Danza Tapdance Extravaganza.”_

“Or at least walk _slower_ or _faster_ or something,” Roman snarls, apparently disregarding Virgil’s response.

“I was walking here _first,”_ Virgil sneers. “If I bug you so much, keep on walking, Princey.”

“Oh, _I’m_ immature, but your go-to response is _I was here first?”_ Roman fires back.

“ _Your_ go-to response was _name-calling,_ buddy, what does that make _you?”_

“And now you’re going _I know what you are, but what am I?!”_

“And we’re _right_ back to the immature thing,” Virgil says, rolling his eyes.

“What is your problem?!” Roman seethes, and Virgil looks at him, disbelieving.

“I thought I was pretty clear that my problem is _you.”_ Virgil snaps back.

Roman stops. Just for a couple steps. Then he moves to catch up, spinning so he’s walking backwards, facing Virgil.

“You know what your problem is?” Roman seethes, and Virgil rolls his eyes.

“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to tell me, no matter what I say.”

“ _Your_ problem is you can’t _stand_ for people to be happy,” Roman declares. “You aren’t happy, you’ve never _been_ happy, and seeing people who are happy, who are _confident_ in who they are, and who they _love_ , and who are living something you couldn’t even _dream_ —that withers up that sad, dark little heart of yours, locked away like the Grinch’s before he stole Christmas, except you’ll _never_ be happy enough to see it grow three sizes.”

Virgil doesn’t reel back. He’s too used to Loch Ligerion turning its back on him to let one other bully get to him. So he doesn’t.

He _smiles._

“And you’re, what?” Virgil says, and allows the smile to grow to a sneer. “The brave, handsome, talented, chivalrous _prince_ in this story? I’m the bad guy. Fine. I’m _good_ at being the bad guy. But you? You’re talking to me about seeing people, but that means I can see right through _you._ You’re a scared little boy, acting _happy_ , and _confident_ in—what was it? Yourself, who you are, who you love? Throw stones at me all you want, I’ve been there before. But be careful about your glass house there, _Cinderfella._ ”

Roman’s face goes ugly. “ _Fuck_ you,” he spits.

“You tried that, sweetheart,” Virgil says condescendingly. “You’re pitching the tantrum about it now, remember?”

Almost faster than Virgil can see, a hand blurs out of the darkness, strikes hot across his cheek, and Virgil pauses, touches his cheek, turns his face back.

Roman’s hand is hovering, almost like he froze right after he did it.

“I,” he says, and falls silent.

Virgil refuses to rub his cheek, to wince, to react. He’s not giving that _dick_ any satisfaction.

“Now who’s the bad guy?” Virgil asks, and Roman snatches his hand back, hikes his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, and turns tail, walking away fast, leaving Virgil alone on the path.

Virgil can’t even bring himself to feel particularly victorious about it.

* * *

The rest of November drags on. Everything’s picking up; Virgil survived his first midterms week back in October, and he’d lucked out into two papers (one for English, one for a one-credit Communications course) and one test (Spanish, and Virgil was _dreadful_ at it; or, uh, _terrible en eso?_ maybe? shit) and a lab for his bio course. His basic psych course had four exams and spaced them out evenly so they didn’t hit on midterms week.

The approaching threat of finals is starting to drive Virgil into a pre-emptive panicking studying spiral; he supposes it’s nice that he’s not alone in that.

Because Logan’s panicking too.

Logan is, quite possibly, one of the smartest people Virgil knows; Virgil’s discovered from staking out the same study room as him over several times that Logan’s one of seven ( _seven_ , out of a class of _over thirty thousand)_ who was accepted into an accelerated six year PhD course for astrophysics in their year.

A highly contested one, with nationwide fierce competition, and basically guaranteed job offer from the institution of your choice once a resume’s submitted. Logan didn’t say that much, but Virgil pieced it together after looking at the university’s page on it.

He’d known, of course, that astrophysics was what drew a fair number of out-of-state students to their school, and he’d known Logan was an astrophysics major. He hadn’t known it was _that_ competitive.

So Logan and Virgil become study buddies; Virgil even lets him take his snacks-of-choice from Cora’s biweekly care package, a high honor. Logan does better with the mathematic-based sciences, and Virgil does better with the life-based ones. They’re science-aligned in a dorm full of (mostly) humanities, they’re both prickly to other people; they got along fairly okay, and both understood the distance from People, the way _friends_ weren’t a necessary category in their lives. People are, in the background, talking apartment leases; Virgil figures sharing a quiet two-bedroom with Logan might not be the worst in the world, but mentally tables that chat for after the new year.

His tarot business suddenly booms too; turns out the hollistic-obsessed sorority girl’s handed off his card to the other girls in the Greek community, gushing about the accuracy of his predictions and advice, so Virgil’s doing a lot more romance-based spreads than he’d done before. (This is something he doesn’t mention to Logan, in their new allyship—Virgil figures magic, fortune-telling, all of it would rub him the wrong way.) But sorority girls talk, and Virgil gets a breadth of new clients. The fact that he’s a bit snarky is, inexplicably, some kind of weird entertainment to them? It works out for him, though. The sudden influx of pocket change is a big bonus, and Virgil invests in Christmas gifts for his favorite cousins, for Cora, the cats, and even one for Uncle. He squirrels away the rest.

He’s picked his new classes for the semester, and now he’s officially declared a major he’s got a couple introductory plant sciences and botany courses amongst all the gen ed choices; a part of Virgil is distantly worrying about how he’ll be able to pass of a magical aptitude for plants as scientific, but he’s got to get through finals first.

Virgil writes most of his bi-weekly letter at the Busy Bean, between quizzing Logan over bio terms and hearing Logan’s critiques on his Communications essay, and the stress must show through, because Cora sends an extra-large care package, filled up with the jam tarts Virgil mentioned, in passing, that Logan favors, as well as butterscotch candies, and brownies, and cookies, and the supplies to make hot chocolate in his dorm room microwave, along with a long, rambling letter full of nothing stressful, and Virgil loves her for it.

He’s rereading it (again) when Logan sweeps into the Busy Bean, looking drawn and pinched, and Virgil sticks up a hand to give a casual wave, showing off the tiny round table in a corner he’s managed to score. Logan waves back, and steps into line at the counter; Virgil returns to rereading the letter, detailing the latest small-town scandals ( _that Baldini girl in your grade’s run off with that Brott boy!)_ and diner tales.

He’s folding it up carefully and putting it away when Logan sets down his massive coffee cup, setting down his similarly overinflated backpack beside his chair.

“How are those revisions coming?” Logan asks, and Virgil spins around his laptop for Logan’s inspection as Logan trades him an English paper about the importance of poetry in the Romantic era. They both fish out red pens, and work in companionable silence.

It’s a pretty decent thing, what he’s got going with Logan. Virgil’s never met anyone who seems to understand how uptight he can get over things like grades, and how laid back he can get about others—Logan’s uptight over just about everything, but somehow not quite to the degree Virgil gets sometimes. Virgil’s not sure if it’s a Fae thing or a college thing, but he gets so stressed and anxious he feels deep in his chest, feels the urge to reach down and scoop out the _bad_ , except clearly he can’t. It kind of sucks. Actually, it sucks a whole lot.

Logan hums, underlines a sentence on Virgil’s paper, and Virgil hurriedly turns his attention back to Logan’s opening paragraph, essentially the academic equivalent of a battering ram to drive his point home. Effective, sure, but with blunt force. Virgil’s really mostly scanning for word choice and grammatical errors—the argument is impeccable.

They swap back, ask questions about the critiques, enact them on their laptops, drink coffee—the night passes thusly, swapping off on the subjects they’re equivalent in, with the occasional gripe about college or professors thrown in there for color. They go off on a fifteen minute tangent complaining about Brad, who has recently inundated both rooms with a scent of weed so intense that they’ve had the windows cracked, _during winter_ , for three days straight. Elliott, at least, can retreat to Mitchell’s for some reprieve.

This is why he thinks it’d be easy, if he and Logan lived together; swapping assignments during dinner, chatting about the professors in their departments, understanding about the influx of coffee sure to be housed in their kitchen. He really does have to work on pitching the apartment thing and getting a budget for that over Christmas break—but again, that’s a conversation for after finals.

Which are looming menacingly—his first one is the day after tomorrow.

“How well-prepared are you?” Logan asks mildly, when Virgil mentions it.

Virgil shrugs one shoulder, takes a sip of coffee. “Better than I expected,” he says. “Thanks for the help, by the way. But there’s still part of me that thinks I’m going to flunk it all.”

Logan snorts softly. “If there’s anyone in our mutual acquaintanceship in danger of that,” Logan says dryly, “it’s the one who’s skipped the equivalent of fourteen weeks of classwork.”

Virgil flinches reflexively, because _dear God,_ what did he go to, syllabus week and dead week and skipped all of the middle?

“If he flunks,” Virgil says darkly, “we’ll be rid of him.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Logan says, with a wry twist to the corner of his mouth, tilting his coffee cup at Virgil, which Virgil returns in kind.

Not in actuality, of course. If he actually thinks darkly towards Brad, Brad _would_ flunk out. The dude may be a douche, but he still deserved to flunk on his own merit, not because his magical suitemate wanted to be free of running into random sorority girls in his bathroom.

They walk back to the dorm together, too—Logan points up to the sky and mentions Venus looking particularly bright, that evening, and Virgil asks that clichéd question every college kid would get.

“Why astrophysics, anyway?”

Logan pauses, and tilts his head upward for a moment before they continue to walk. “It’s about our formation,” he says. “How these phenomena originated, their evolutions, their deaths. Venus, for instance, has been around for millions of years before me, and it will be there for millions of years after. And yet all you need to study it is to turn your eyes upwards. To look beyond humanity, beyond the Earth. Into the unkown. It’s captivated us for millenia—yet that fascination is a momentary blip, on the scale of what’s out there. The light of dead, dying stars, what lies beyond, the possibility of _other_ life-forms… so much is unknown, and yet space holds the secrets of our very existence.” He stops, seeming almost embarrassed, and clears his throat, nudging his glasses up his nose. “Why, ah. Why plant sciences?”

Virgil laughs, once, adjusts his backpack on his shoulders. “Your explanation sounds way better,” Virgil says. “Family history, mostly. Faes have been dealing with this kind of thing for generations. It’s part of the family business. I’ve been picking herbs and weeding gardens since I was a kid.”

Logan nods, as if the explanation is acceptable to him, and they approach Brooks, walking together and then departing at their doors, letting themselves in. Virgil flops facefirst on the bed, not bothering to take off his boots. Not quite yet.

Virgil enters a bizarre state of preternatural calm, the day before finals. He wonders if it’s just his body overloaded on stress and anxiety to the point that it’s just stopped accepting those emotions. Like he’s in some weird, finals-induced shock. Save his brain from the emotional trauma of what was to come, or whatever.

Bright side, it’s two papers, two of which he’d already submitted ahead of schedule—however, the other three exams were daunting. Virgil’s up to his ears in Spanish worksheets and Psych flashcards and Bio diagrams. There is, for once, complete and utter silence from across the bathroom—apparently Brad’s finally decided to buckle down, or maybe Logan’s actually won for once and foisted him from the room.

There’s a buzz from his phone—his tarot phone, and Virgil squints at it before he at last opens the text.

 _Can I get just a one-card thing, to tell me how finals are going to go?_ The message from Patton reads. _I’ll add on the cost of this to the next reading, I swear._

Virgil pauses, shrugs, and goes over to a tarot deck, spreading them across his desk with a lazy hand before picking one up. This isn’t the ideal method, of course, but it’s better than nothing.

 _The Chariot,_ Virgil sends. _One of the main tenets of the chariot is triumph, also known for control. The cards say you’ll be fine._

 _What a relief!!! :D,_ Patton sends back, and Virgil sets his phone aside, turning back to his Spanish study guide.

He studies until Logan knocks on the bathroom door and tells him to go to bed, as to get maximum sleep required, but Virgil _also_ notices Logan’s got his lights on so Virgil knocks back and tells him to listen to his own advice before he brushes his teeth, and tries to fall asleep, brain halfheartedly still translating every sentence in his head.

He falls asleep without realizing, and wakes up feeling like he hasn’t gotten any sleep at all; Logan bullies him into going to the dining hall for breakfast (which Virgil normally never does) and Virgil has to bully him back, into taking some fruit for breakfast.

For someone who preaches the importance of hydration and sleep schedules, Logan’s really bad at following it for himself.

They spend the day sequestered in their respective dorm rooms, going over all their material; Virgil has his psych final first, which is the one he feels readiest for, and then Spanish, and then Bio.

The same weird sense of calm is still over him; Virgil basically has to grab Logan by the collar to make him go to lunch, and then dinner, and Virgil lets Logan take all the jam tarts.

Finals week goes by in almost a blur. His brain narrows out to _study_ and _food_ and _sleep,_ only focused on the next thing, not allowing any worry to distract him. It’s weird—he’s not sure if he’s ever felt so driven in his life.

When he walks out of his last exam, he stops just outside the door to let out a long breath.

He’s done it. It’s all out of his hands now.

* * *

“How was your break?” Logan asks, as Virgil hauls the last of his stuff back into the dorm.

He shrugs. “Decent, I guess. Yours?”

In reality, it had been the bi-annual visit of cousins, who’d thrown a massive bash for his eighteenth birthday, and a quiet Christmas with Cora and Uncle. It had been spending the week not bothering to check that the doors were locked before letting his clothes fold themselves, letting the plants water themselves, letting the dishes fly however he pleased. But he supposes it falls under decent.

“Decent,” Logan echoes. “I forgot to ask about your class schedule this semester.”

Virgil digs out the class schedule he’d shoved into his desk drawer, and leans close to Logan to examine his.

Logan touches a shade of red in the same place of both of theirs. “You chose statistics for your mathematical reasoning, as well?”

Virgil nods, and double-checks they have the same professor and lecture hall, before allowing a small smile to cross his face.

“Guess we’re studying together a lot more,” Virgil says.

Logan nods. “Guess so.”

Virgil’s got his intro to plant sciences course too, a history course, some weird art history course, and another Spanish course. He figures it’ll be an okay semester, especially now he actually knows someone in his class.

The first stats class is the first class he has, and it’s late Monday morning. It’s in one of the massive lecture halls, one of the ones meant to hold five hundred people, and they’re looking to be at max capacity. He squints out at the lecture hall—Logan had texted him and said he was saving a seat.

“Virgil!”

Virgil blinks, swivels slightly, about to say hello to a familiar voice and go on his merry way, when he sees who’s sitting next to him.

Roman Prince looks similarly spooked—probably that Patton sounds so cheerful when calling out to him.

“Hey, Patton,” Virgil says, adjusting his backpack straps.

“Small world, huh?” he beams. “D’you want a seat?”

” _No,”_ Virgil says immediately, though he does delight a bit in how pale Roman gets. “No. Uh, my suitemate’s saving me a seat, I should find—”

“Virgil,” Logan says, from down the row, crisp and clear.

“There he is,” Virgil says, and waits for Roman and Patton to stand so he can shuffle past them to get down to where Logan has, indeed, saved him a seat.

“Who was that?” Logan asks, as he settles his notebook on the desk.

“Patton,” Virgil says, being deliberately obtuse, but Logan nods, accepting it.

The lecture’s pretty dull; it’s syllabus week, known fondly as Silly Week to most of Greek town and thereby to most of the university. The first week of classes tended to mean the first class spent reviewing the syllabus, and then easy, simple material. Apparently, it was a good week for partying, as well as Dead Week, the last week of classes (spent on review, and with Dead Day, when classes stopped, it was a day full of day drinking or cramming in the library. For the ambitious, both.) Logan, Virgil, and Elliott were all already dreading what unspeakable horrors Brad would bring to their dorm.

But Patton’s waiting at the edge of the row as Logan and Virgil walk out, smiling.

“I was wondering if you two wanted to get lunch,” Patton says, cheerful, and sticks out a hand to Logan. “Hi, I’m Patton.”

“Logan,” Logan says with a nod and what is, no doubt, a professional firm handshake.

“Roman,” Roman says with a nod, and Logan nods back. Patton looks expectantly between Roman and Virgil.

“Oh, we’ve met,” Virgil says, already gleefully anticipating watching Roman squirm during this lunch.

They end up in the nearest dining hall, and Logan prompts them through the whole name-grade-major thing. Patton carries them through as he asks Logan a lot about the PhD program, and Logan obliges, as Virgil watches Roman stab at the lasagna they were serving today.

“—and, well. You mentioned you’re an elementary education major?”

“Yep,” Patton chirps, popping the p. “Kindergarteners, hopefully. Kids are great, I’ve been babysitting for most of my life regardless—”

“Really,” Logan says mildly.

“Patton has eight siblings,” Roman and Virgil say at the same time, then glare at each other before turning back to their respective meals.

“Eight,” Logan repeats, eyebrows raised.

“D’you have any siblings?” Patton asks curiously, and Logan shakes his head. Virgil shakes his too.

“One,” Roman says with a shrug. “Sister. Older.”

“Huh,” Patton says, then shakes himself. “Couldn’t imagine that.”

There’s a brief lull in the conversation as everyone eats their lunch. Virgil can feel it won’t last long—the way a bad knee felt a storm coming.

“So,” Patton prompts, “what other classes is everyone taking this semester? Maybe there’s some overlap, even with the different majors.”

Virgil’s half-listening about everyone’s schedule and mutters out his classes.

“Spanish?” Roman says, and Virgil narrows his eyes at him.

“Yeah,” he says, slow.

Roman’s lip twitches, and he then proceeds to let out a long stream of Spanish that sounds too smug, for Virgil’s tastes.

“You’re fluent?” Logan says, arching a brow, and Roman gives him a full-blown smirk.

“Of course you are,” Virgil grumbles, very aware that he understood maybe three words of Roman’s rapid-spoken Spanish. God, he’s so bad at it. Of _course_ Roman’s incredibly adept at his worst subject. Of _course._

“Well, that’s great,” Patton says, cheerful. “Roman could help you study!”

They scoff in unison, and glare at each other harder.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” Patton says, curious. “I didn’t know you knew each other, let alone that you’re friends.”

Virgil sneers. “We aren’t _friends,”_ he says. Faes don’t have friends— _Virgil_ doesn’t have friends.

“No, we’re not,” Roman says, voice tight. Virgil can see his knuckles whitening from how hard he’s gripping his fork.

“Oh,” Patton says, faltering for a moment, and he’s clearly about to change the subject when Virgil leans forward, not willing to let this go.

“How’d that walk home go?”

“Speedily,” Roman says. “Thanks for asking—”

He’s about to gear up to say something else sassy, but Virgil doesn’t give him the chance.

“Yeah?” Virgil says. “And your hand?”

Roman freezes.

It’s easy to read Roman. Reputation _matters_ to him, it’s _essential._ He obsesses over people’s perception of him. Virgil barely even needs to Look to know that.

Then, unsuspected, Roman smiles. Leans forward.

“Just fine, thanks,” he says, calm. “Your face?”

Okay. So they’re going all in here.

“Just fine,” Virgil echoes. “You only smacked me a bit, didn’t even leave a bruise. Thanks a _ton,_ that would’ve been a pain.”

Patton and Logan look at each other, Patton a touch panicked, Logan mostly intrigued.

“You know what else probably would have been a pain for you?” Roman says, thoughtful. “Actually being polite in denying someone. You’re straight, I get it. You’re _super_ secure in your straightness. You didn’t have to _shove_ me and say that me trying to be nice to you was a mistake.”

Virgil blinks. And blinks more.

Christ, are normal people _blind?_ Is _this_ what it’s like to not be able to See things?

“I’m _gay,_ you fucking idiot,” Virgil says, and Roman blinks right back. Opens his mouth and shuts it. Whatever plan he’d had has clearly defenestrated itself. Virgil snorts, derisive.

“Is _that_ why you’ve been so furious at me?” Virgil says, smirking. “Because you thought I was a homophobe? Is it _really_ that far of a reach to think that someone didn’t want to be with you? That’s the _only_ reason that you can think of? Go on, rack whatever brains you’ve got. Think how maybe I didn’t want to go out with a guy whose major flirting technique was getting a drunk girl to put makeup on me and crowd me up against a bathroom sink. Go on. Try it.”

Virgil’s wondering where his last fuck went. Clearly not here.

“Okay, _first_ of all,” Roman says, “you _agreed_ to let her put makeup on you, and second of all, I never _touched_ you like that. I didn’t shove you, that was _you._ Are you seriously that upset that I hit on you?”

Virgil sneers. “ _You’re_ the one who took such offense to it that you catapulted that whole _other_ argument.”

Logan is looking with the academic expression of someone observing a supernova, or a meteor slamming into a planet. Patton looks like he’s watching a car crash.

“Which,” Virgil says, “might I add, _you_ escalated.”

Roman’s face pinches up. “Oh, right, so telling me all about my _perceived_ flaws—”

“ _You_ started it,” Virgil snaps.

“So we’re back to the whole maturity argument, great,” Roman snaps.

“Okay,” Patton says, quickly. “Okay! Let’s take a second, here.”

Roman and Virgil both swivel to stare at Patton.

“So,” Patton says, “you two both got off on the wrong foot. Like, by a lot. Right?”

They both glare at each other, but Roman mutters, “Right.”

“I don’t think Princey has anything _but_ wrong feet,” Virgil says under his breath, and Patton shoots him a glare that’s so much like Cora’s Virgil falls instinctively silent.

“ _So_ ,” Patton says. “We’re all in this class together. This is kind of a built-in study group. I really like the both of you, and I’d prefer if you two didn’t fight. Can we have a truce that whenever we’re together for stats-related things, there won’t be any fighting?”

And _then_ he turns on the puppy eyes.

“Please?”

* * *

They fight a lot about stupid things. Little things. But the truce holds whenever Patton is in the room. When he’s not…

“Get out of my way,” Virgil snaps, when Roman takes a few seconds too long delaying his entrance at the Busy Bean.

Instead of stepping into the store, Roman swivels. “ _Excuse_ me?” He says, and Virgil’s lips curl up into a sneer.

“People wanna get _in_ , Princey,” Virgil says, enunciating slowly, as if to make sure he understands. He just wants to get this homework over with.

“I was taking _five seconds,”_ Roman says defensively, opening the door and stepping out of the direct path, “You know the only reason I’m tolerating you is because of Patton. Right?”

Virgil grimaces. “Mutual.” He looks around. “However, Patton isn’t _here,_ right now. So I don’t have to be civil.”

Roman’s face twists up. “You’re such a charmer,” he says, sarcastically. “It’s no wonder Patton likes you with a gold attitude like _that.”_

“Yeah, well,” Virgil says. “At least I admit it to myself and don’t just cover up so people _like_ me.”

“What’s wrong with wanting people to like you?” Roman snaps, and Virgil rolls his eyes.

“Maybe it’s because you’re _fake,”_ he says pointedly, and Roman’s about to snap something back, but Logan sits at the table. They both glower at each other, and turn to face their stats homework.

In an odd way, Virgil’s kind of relieved. They’ve been fighting a lot and Virgil just doesn’t have the energy today.

* * *

The truce holds. Barely. Virgil thinks it’s a matter of Roman and Virgil both silently competing against each other to see who’d upset Patton first.

The truce _doesn’t_ hold as far as bickering goes, which, thank God, Virgil doesn’t think he could stand stats study groups without some kind of release for the tension. Virgil has heard an alarming number of new nicknames for himself and spends more time than he’d like to admit trying to come up with rebuttals to use for the next session (he’s particularly excited to use _Humperdick,_ after hearing Roman gush about his adoration for the Princess Bride when they were supposed to be figuring out probabilities.)

It kind of surprises Virgil that they make it all the way to the last dredges of February before the truce blows up in their faces. Nearly a whole month of biting tongues for the pair of them, it was bound to boil over eventually.

And it does. Oh, it does.

Virgil can barely remember the specifics—it repeats over and over again, in the snatches of moments when they’re left alone. But something’s off about that day, and they can’t help but blow up at each other, during a study session, in front of Patton and Roman, and it ends with Virgil slinking out, gritting his teeth.

It’s not even _fun_ anymore. It’s a chore. _Roman_ is a chore. He cannot wait for this class to be over so he never has to see that pompous, stupid, irritating, _dramatic_ face again.

* * *

Patton’s arranged a meeting at the Busy Bean for this weekend before the other two will join them for a study session, and he’s weirdly excited to see Patton without Patton having to run interference, to just do a reading. Like. _Weirdly_ excited. After Patton always running interference these days, he never sees Patton outside of stats.

Like. Virgil gets to the Busy Bean fifteen minutes early despite the fact Patton’s almost always a bit late. Like, Virgil spends those fifteen minutes fussing with his tarot cards, making sure he’s got the cat ones, and thinking over various odder readings Patton might want to do instead.

Patton wanders in, wrapped up in a bright blue puffy jacket, and waves to Virgil, like usual, before pointing to the counter, like usual, so he could get his drink. Virgil starts absentmindedly shuffling cards.

Patton blinks when he sees them, and settles in, smiling a little.

“Hi,” Virgil says, straightening the deck with a couple taps against the table. “I know you like the traditional stuff, but I think the maculomancy last time went pretty well, so—”

He’s cut off by the sound of giggles, and blinks as Patton covers his mouth with a mittened hand.

“Sorry,” he gasps, and waves his hand at Virgil. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t really make it clear—I thought we were meeting for cocoa, not doing readings.”

Virgil pauses. “Oh,” he says, awkward, and starts thumbing through the cards, just to do with his hands. “So, um. So what do you want to do… instead?”

“Talk,” Patton prompts.

“About…?”

“Anything,” Patton says. “Your classes, that roommate of Logan’s. Just two friends catching up.”

Virgil absolutely freezes.

_Just two friends catching up._

“I,” Virgil says, and his brow furrows. “Friends?”

He means for his tone to be a bit more biting, but it comes out confused instead.

Patton blinks back. Now he’s confused too. “What did you think we were?”

“Client,” Virgil says, gesturing between them. “We meet for a reading, or—or we study for stats together, I don’t—" Virgil shakes himself. “I don’t. Have friends.”

Patton sets down his cocoa. “ _Virgil_ ,” Patton says, something in his voice that Virgil doesn’t want to understand. “Who told you that you don’t have friends?”

“I— _no one,”_ Virgil says. “I just _don’t._ I’ve never had friends. I just—I have family, and the cats, and people that don’t like me. I don’t have _friends.”_

“Not one?” Patton asks, soft and gentle. “No one’s ever called you a friend?”

Virgil clams up. He looks out the window.

“We were young,” Virgil says, tightly. “And because he was my friend, they wouldn’t let me talk to him anymore. I’ve only had one friend. _One._ I’ve learned.”

“Learned _what?”_ Patton says, and he’s frowning now, leaning forwards, entreating him. “That it’s better to be alone?”

“That it’s better to be _protected,”_ Virgil says.

“I,” Patton begins, and shakes his head. “Okay. Let’s change topics. Do you like me as a person?”

Virgil doesn’t particularly _want_ to change topics. “Yes,” Virgil says grudgingly, because what’s he going to do, lie? Patton’s one of the most genuinely kind people he’s ever met. Who wouldn’t like him?

“Okay,” Patton says with a nod. “And I like you.”

Something shorts out in Virgil’s brain and it renders him incapable of responding in actual English.

“ _And_ ,” Patton says, digging out his phone and typing something in, waiting for a few awkward moments as whatever it is loads and Virgil tries to reconnect the wires in his brain. “According to the dictionary, a friend is _someone whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection._ ” He sets his phone aside triumphantly. “We have a mutual affection and we spend time together. So we’re friends.”

Virgil opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Well,” Virgil rasps, and clears his throat. “Can’t argue with that logic, I guess.”

Patton looks pleased and picks his cocoa back up. “No, you can’t,” he agrees. “How’s your aunt?”

The hot cocoa talk is… nice, Virgil guesses. He can’t really keep a shred of focus because his brain keeps cycling back to _so we’re friends._ To the point where, when Logan sits with them, five minutes before their stats lesson, Virgil turns to him immediately.

“Are we friends?” He asks without preface, and Logan pauses thoughtfully, tilting his head.

“I suppose we are,” he says. “Though, as you know, sentiment isn’t exactly my strong suit. Yes, we’re friends. Is there anything in particular that spurred this discussion?”

Virgil is losing his _mind._

Which feels odd, because the day seems to be mostly normal. They’re seated at one of their normal tables, it took a normal amount of time to get his coffee, the weather’s very… normal. When Roman gets there, he and Roman bicker a normal amount. Patton engages in the normal amount of chitchat before Logan enforces the fact that they should be studying.

They’re all take a practice test to start, to gage their skills, when It Happens.

They’re talking over one of the long-work problems, one of the more complicated ones, when Roman’s walking through the process and frowns at the key.

“What the heckity heck,” he says, “Five abs and one peck?”

Virgil. Stops.

_What the heckity heck five abs and one peck what the heckity heck five abs and one peck what the heckity heck five abs and one peck what the heckity heck five abs and one peck_

No way. There’s no _way._

“Well, it’s—what?” Logan asks, frowning.

“What the heckity heck, five abs and one peck,” Roman elaborates. “It’s something I say so I’m not alone in my confusion. See, it works.” Roman glances at Virgil and smirks a bit. “Bit too well for you, Christian Baleful?”

Virgil licks his lips, which are suddenly dry. “Well,” he says, slow. “I guess that’s just because men are idiots, right?”

He gets to see his own deer-in-headlights look recreated on Roman’s face, who leans back, face going pale, mouth open.

“I’m—confused,” Logan says, looking between them.

“There’s no way,” Roman says, hoarse.

Virgil’s inclined to agree. He wants to say so, even, but his voice isn’t working.

“You,” Roman says, and shakes his head. “No. _No._ You’ve said some heinous shit, but this—how did you even find out about—?”

Virgil blinks. He doesn’t know where Roman’s going with this.

“You aren’t him,” Roman says, decisively, and shakes his head. “Look, I don’t know how you hacked into my middle school email, but you aren’t Anx. There’s no way.”

Virgil blinks at him. “I—” he says, and then, softer, “Roman—”

Roman slams his fist on the table so loudly that Virgil flinches. “ _No,”_ he snarls. “There’s no way. Anx was—Anx was _sweet,_ in his own snarky way, and he— _no._ No.”

Virgil can’t even defend himself—his brain’s too busy matching up the points.

Charm loved to act, and Roman’s a theater major. Charm loved Disney, and Roman had dressed up as the prince from Cinderella for Halloween. Charm loved Harry Potter, and Roman had once derailed a study session to loudly proclaim about how he was a Gryffindor. Charm was gay, and Roman had hit on Virgil blatantly. Charm had second-guessed himself at every turn, and Roman’s terrified of people’s perception of him.

Charm had been his best friend, and Roman _hated_ him.

“ _Charm,”_ Virgil says, at last, and Roman looks at him, wild-eyed and _scared._ “It’s—I didn’t—if I’d known—”

If he’d known? If he’d _known?_ If he’d known Roman was Charm as soon as he’d approached—if he’d…

If he’d known. He would’ve acted differently. Right? That’s what Virgil’s about to say. If he’d known, he would have been more polite, he would have…

What? What would he have done?

Virgil has no idea. He doesn’t _know._

The world’s split into Faes and Clients and Enemies. He’d chosen that, after he’d been cut off from Charm. But Charm’s _right here._ And Virgil had delighted in needling him, in fighting with him. The way he sometimes delighted in needling the town, the way that he treated the mass of the town. The way Uncle had raised him to—except did he, really? He’d left Virgil to his own devices. And Virgil—

Virgil’s a _horrible person._

“Whoa,” Patton says at last. “Whoa, whoa, okay. What’s going on here?”

Virgil feels like he’s going to be _sick_. He has to—he has to—

“Sorry,” he chokes out, and shoves away from the table so hard he knocks over his coffee, snatching his bag, and hightailing it out of there.

* * *

Virgil is an idiot.

No. More than that. He’s a bully, and a bad person, and somehow, he has _friends._

Well. Two of them, at least. Roman’s right to have hated him for so long.

God, what is he _doing?_

He’d come to college because he wanted something different. A different place, and different people. And he’d acted _exactly the same._

What had Roman even _done_ to him? Flirt? That was _it._ And he’d just… blown up. Hated him for that. Roman didn’t _know_ anything, he didn’t figure out what was wrong, he—

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut, and turns his face away from the window, wrapping his arms tighter around his knees.

“Hey.”

Virgil turns his face back towards the window, mouth twisting up.

“So, um,” Roman says awkwardly, and he hears the noise of a couple chairs pulling out from the nearby table. “Gotta admit. Whenever I imagined us meeting, it wasn’t like this.”

“You thought we’d meet,” Virgil says, voice rough.

“I mean, yeah,” Roman says. “At least, I hoped so. Up until that last email, I thought—we’d be friends forever. You know?”

Virgil’s eyes squeeze shut tighter. “It was my great-aunt Margot,” he says at last, because Roman— _Charm_ —deserves an explanation, at least. “The librarian one. She, um. Apparently I left it open and she found out what we were doing. So she swapped the passwords around and put internet safety things on the computer so I couldn’t. Contact you again.”

There’s a quiet noise of realization, and Roman says, “Well, that answers that question. Thanks for telling me.”

Virgil snorts. “You don’t need to thank me for anything.”

Roman’s silent.

“You should probably still hate me,” Virgil continues, voice tight.

“Well, I’m still not your number-one fan,” Roman says reasonably. “I mean. You probably aren’t mine, either. I gave as good as you did. But it… I dunno. When I stopped to think, it made more sense.”

A day ago—a couple hours ago—he would have made some kind of remark at that. Now, he can only stay silent.

“If I have this correct,” Logan begins, the first thing he’s actually said, “you two were… childhood penpals?”

“Basically, yeah,” Roman says.

“You guys should go away,” Virgil says, voice tight. “I don’t—it’s better if I’m alone.”

“Hey,” Patton begins, soft and gentle. “No, it’s—it’s never better, to be alone.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ Virgil almost says, but he keeps his gaze focused out the window.

“Virgil,” Roman says, and then, softer, “Anx. I… okay, you weren’t the best person. But I wasn’t either. Can we… extend apologies and go back to normal? Better than normal, even.”

“I,” Virgil begins, and shakes his head. “It would be—better,” he said, falteringly. “If I stay away. Protect you.”

“Protect us from _what,”_ Logan says, flat. “You have a tendency to be snarky and sarcastic. If you’ve seen the error of your ways, then I’m sure that’s—”

“There are things at play here you don’t understand,” Virgil says tightly. “I’m sorry, Logan. _Personal_ things.”

Patton insists, “We need you, Virgil. You help put us into balance. Without you, I… we aren’t going to be balanced anymore.”

“I am inclined to agree with Patton,” Logan says, softly. “We have two minds with analytical tendencies, and two minds with creative tendencies. We have two people suited to writings, and two people suited to reading those writings. We have two people who are more inclined towards—towards _emotional_ thinking, and two that are more intended towards process-based thinking.” A pause, a smile. “Two people with glasses, and two without. Two people inclined towards makeup, and two that aren’t. Two people who wear hoodies that often, and two that don’t. We _fit._ There are never ideal circumstances but this one is beyond suitable. We can make this work even better. But we need you to do that. Without you, we fall out of balance.”

“You can find someone else,” Virgil says tightly. “You’re better off without… this. Without me.”

“Virgil,” Roman says, and waits until Virgil looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “ _You_ make us better.”

Virgil felt his cheeks go pink, and he ducks his head.

“We can work on this together, all right?” Roman says. “You’ve made mistakes. But you have time to turn around. And we can help you do that. Please don’t—” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “Please don’t leave me without an explanation again.”

Virgil has to look away then, swallowing. His eyes shut tight.

“Okay,” he rasps, at last.

Patton perks up, almost cartoonishly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Virgil repeats, and Patton coos happily, reaching to hug Virgil around the shoulders.

“Group hug!” He declares, and though Logan groans, and Roman is dramatic about it, they all acquiesce.

 _Okay,_ Virgil thinks, and leans against Patton’s side.

“We’re right here, okay?” Patton whispers in his ear. “ _Always.”_


	4. Chapter 4

Virgil had anticipated the move being absolute chaos.

The reality’s much worse.

He’s taken the beater of a car up to school, for now; the agreement is that he’ll drive it back and then get the bus back to campus, which is a pain, but seemingly the only solution. Virgil’s providing kitchen stuff and the materials for his bedroom, the rest is _taken care of!_ according the groupchat they’d kept over the summer (which pinged in time nearly with his heartbeat) but Virgil’s been anticipating last minute runs to the nearest shop with the cheapest furniture.

He gets there first; granted, it’s towards the end of the day, and Virgil swings into the leasing office to get his key. He gets something at the Busy Bean, and then he waits. Virgil huddles up in his car, sweating (partially from nerves, partially from the heat) and triple-guessing every last move he’s going to make. He’s cased the street a dozen times, he’s got the potion necessary, he knows he’s likely as safe as it’s gonna be, but intellectually he knows how nocturnal college students can be; the potion may be good, but it’s not foolproof, and it won’t work on furniture.

He deems it safe when it reaches the witching hour, three in the morning—late enough that the bars are closed, late enough that people would be sleeping, late enough that police have likely given up on their rounds.

Virgil takes a breath when the clock turns and dumps the potion in his hands.

Potion’s really the only most casual name for it; this particular potion’s supposed to be applied like a lotion. It smells of apple seeds, foxglove, elderberries. Certainly lethal if ingested, and definitely painful if Virgil touches any living thing. Really, the invisibility is only a side effect; this is meant to incapacitate people. He vows to himself to take a shower as soon as he’s done what he’s about to do.

Virgil takes a breath. He can, technically, do this. He doesn’t usually—it feels show-offy, he doesn’t quite have the finest of control with it—and he’s never really done it with things this heavy.

He closes his eyes, reaches down within himself until he can feel the crackling echoing up and down his spine, and holds up his hands. (He doesn’t actually have to do this part, but it kind of makes him feel like a superhero, so he does it. He usually uses the excuse of _narrowing my focus_ but it is absolutely because it makes him feel like a superhero.)

The furniture, kitchenware, and bins of clothes began to float through the air and soar gently through the opened door on the balcony. Virgil keeps his breathing even and calm—if he panics, furniture’ll go flying, and that’ll be even more of a mess.

He lowers his hands when the last of it’s up, smiles to himself, and goes to climb the stairs to actually enter his apartment.

His stuff is lying in the midst of the living room floor; he hasn’t put a hole through any of the walls, and there’s no scuffmarks on the balcony door, so Virgil’s considering this a success. He flicks his hand, and his bedframe scuttles off to his bedroom to assemble itself as the pots, pans, and silverware leap to file itself away in the cupboards and drawers.

He’s careful not to touch anything, too aware of what he’d read this potion can do, even resorts to having the bed make itself and his clothes hang themselves in his closet, as he goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower immediately.

Virgil crashes into his bed around four, having carefully scrubbed off every inch of his body, before he groans, remembering the parking meter outside. He may be magic, but even he can’t circumvent the police from giving him a parking ticket.

Grumblingly, he descends the stairs, and goes to park it somewhere he can actually keep it overnight. At least, he meant to, and eventually just turned the car to the highway and booked it back to Ligerion. Better now than later, he figures.

Cora’s less pleased that he’s made the drive on no sleep and bullies him into taking a nap in her apartment above the diner, before sending him off with a gift card for a grocery store, _for food only, you hear me? for HEALTHY food, too!_ and coffee to wait for the bus.

He gets to the apartment and spends the morning straightening out the last of his belongings before he hears a knock on the front door, and pads, barefoot, to the door.

He opens it to see Logan juggling a box, and Virgil steps aside to let him in.

“When’d you get here?” Logan asks, and Virgil shrugs.

“Earlier,” he says. “That’s not all your stuff, right?”

“Of course not,” Logan says with a sigh. “My mother’s terrorizing the local store staff and my father’s joined her. Apparently as we are two young men with good backs, they have assumed we can handle moving the heavy things ourselves.”

“They totally saddled us with all the work, got it,” Virgil says, mentally calculating the likelihood of a Logan freakout if he does the same magic in the midst of the day before deciding it’s probably not worth it. “Patton and Roman should be by soon, though, so it’ll be _four_ young men with good backs.”

“Fantastic,” Logan says, and squints. “I’m next to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Virgil says, pointing down the hall. “Second door on the left. Patton and Roman have the right.”

The four rooms—two on the left, two on the right—are branched off from the living room and kitchen, each with their own bathroom. Which Virgil’s a little excited for, oddly—he’s so used to it at Ligerion, college was a bit of a culture shock for him.

Logan carts down his first box of stuff to his room as Virgil hunts after a doorstop.

He and Logan make two more trips up before a van pulls up, and out from it pours a Biblical plague of children.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Patton says, hands on his hips even as he’s exiting the car and lecturing two little girls who have already gotten into pulling on each other’s braids. “Pris, Poppy, go grab a box and stop bugging each other, okay?”

They roll their eyes in tiny unison but go to do as Patton says.

“I’ve brought free labor,” Patton says, gesturing expansively towards his eight siblings. “They’re getting paid in pizza and ice cream, so. Point Parker, Peter, Penny, and Piper to the heavy stuff, Pris and Pop say they’ve got dibs on decorating—my room only, don’t worry—Pat, could you help Pearl carry that ottoman, thank you—"

“Um,” Logan says, and proceeds to take the two nearest elder children, directing them towards his van as the other two split to grab some of Patton’s stuff.

“Run me through the roster again,” Virgil says faintly.

“Got it,” Patton says. “Me, Patton, I’m nineteen-almost-twenty. Penny’s just eighteen, Parker’s fifteen, Piper’s thirteen, Pris and Pop are ten, Patrick’s eight, and Pearl is six.”

Virgil shakes himself. “I’m never going to understand having that many siblings,” he decides.

“A-okay,” Patton declares, and gives Virgil a brief, one-armed squeeze of a hug. “How’s your summer been?”

“Good, boring,” Virgil fibs. “Cousins came to town, worked at the diner and with my uncle. Same old.”

Patton nods and he’s about to say more, before he swoops in to help the two littlest ones with that ottoman, leaving Virgil to grab a random box from inside the truck and haul it inside.

The big furniture has monopoly in the elevator, so Virgil’s suffering up and down the stairs hauling boxes for Logan and Patton when Roman pulls up—with his parents, and his sister.

Virgil sighs but accepts the box Roman thunks into his arms as a form of hello.

The apartment’s pretty spacey, compared to the dorm, but with sixteen people (Logan’s parents swan back in once the heavy lifting’s done with) it’s feeling a bit cramped. Virgil’s fighting the urge to hide in his room until everyone leaves.

Until there’s a tug at his pant leg, and Virgil looks down into the large brown eyes. It’s one of the little ones, Virgil thinks, but he can’t remember if it’s Pris, Poppy, or Pearl. Judging by size, probably Pearl.

“Um,” Virgil says. “Hi. Do you… are you looking for Patton? Do you need something to do?”

Pearl shakes her head, and stares at him, still wide-eyed.

“Oh,” Virgil begins, “ _kay._ What’s up?”

Pearl makes a frustrated face, and the pulse Virgil gets from her is so strong that he barely even has to Look.

“Oh,” he says, “ _oh,_ ” and then, fumblingly, makes a fist, thumb up, and circles it around his heart. “Sorry,” he says, careful to mouth his words carefully. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

Pearl shrugs, and she signs _I get it,_ mouthing the words too, but Virgil _knows,_ somehow, knows the signs that match up to the words. Does he know sign language too? Is this something he just knows, now? Or is it just because he’s Looking?

“Did you need something?” Virgil tries, managing to sign _you_ and _need._ Pearl looks at him, and he knows the sign, knows what she’s trying to say.

_Patton says you know magic._

Virgil doesn’t know if that’s what Patton’s told her, if he’s mentioned tarot to Pearl, if he’s trying to make his sister believe, but Virgil’s a bit spooked. He glances up and down the hallway, before he crouches to her height, digging out a quarter. He learned this a long time ago.

“Ready?” Virgil says, and makes the coin disappear, quick, sleight-of-hand magic rather than Fae magic. Pearl giggles and claps, and he pulls it from her ear, and he makes a mock surprised face for her.

_More!_

“You want more?” Virgil says, focusing on keeping his face turned towards her, and manages to finger spell _m-o-r-e,_ grateful that he’d memorized the alphabet.

She nods, and Virgil looks up and down the hall, before seeing Patton’s shadow in the hallway door.

No real Fae magic, then. Virgil wracks his brain, before he smiles.

Okay. A _bit_ of Fae magic. But he’ll be sneaky about it.

“One coin, right?” He says, holding up one finger, and she nods. He twists it, makes a fist, holds his hand flat.

Her jaw drops, and she picks up the two coins. She makes a signal Virgil doesn’t need sign language to know—it’s a signal for _again!_

Virgil grins. “Okay,” he says, showing her his empty hands, before tapping the two coins she held, making a fist, and opening each hand to show another two coins. He passes a hand over hers, and the other two coins appear in her hand, making four.

_Again! Again! Again!_

“ _Again,_ huh?” Virgil says. “I’ll go bigger. Watch.”

 _One, two, three, four,_ shuffle from her hand to his without him laying a hand on her, and _one, two, three, four_ supersized coins take their place, and _one, two, three, four,_ he pulls two of them from her ears, and two from her mouth.

There’s a burst of applause, and Virgil looks over, Pearl’s head whipping around a moment after.

“That was good, huh?” Patton says, signing his words, too. Pearl nods.

“I told you he was magic,” he says. “Virgil, how about you show off later? Pearl, Pris and Pop might need a bit of help in my room, if you want—”

She scuttles off as soon as he signs the words, and he smiles after her before turning to Virgil.

“I didn’t know you knew coin magic too.”

“I know all kinds of magic,” Virgil says, standing up straight. “Is that all it takes to entertain a kid?”

“She’s cute now, but wait until she’s tired, she’s a terror,” Patton says with a grin. “I was just gonna check if you were all good with pepperoni or cheese pizza, and if you had a preference on ice cream flavor.”

“All good,” Virgil says. “And… anything with a lot of chocolate, I guess.”

Patton laughs and nods, making a note in his phone, before he heads for the more cheerful chattering in the living room.

Virgil pauses before he can go into his room, sighs, and turns towards the chattering too.

The activity’s died down a bit; Roman and Logan are arguing over what goes in which cabinet in the kitchen as Patton’s siblings sprawl over their furniture and carpet, and Virgil goes to unload the groceries Patton’s dad’s dropped off. Patton looks almost nothing like his father, who’s sitting at the breakfast bar.

“Virgil, isn’t it?” He says, and Virgil is suddenly very aware that the other clusters of parents are around him.

“Yes,” Virgil says cautiously, shredded cheese in hand.

“Did your folks roll out of town earlier?” He asks mildly.

“Oh, I—we drove down my stuff and they helped me unload, yeah,” Virgil lies.

“Should I get your parents’ number?” Logan’s mother, looking pinched, asks. “In case of emergencies, I mean.”

“My parents are dead,” Virgil says, unthinkingly, and there’s a collection of quiet, pitying murmuring. Roman’s mother looks ready to smother him. He hastily tries to wave it off. “I—I was five, it’s been a while. My uncle’s the one who raised me, he doesn’t have a phone, but my great-aunt does, I’ll give it to you—”

The parents all fish out their phones, and once they’ve got that information sorted, Logan’s dad says, “So, what’s your major, Virgil?”

“Plant sciences,” Virgil says, putting away the eggs.

“And what do you intend to do with that?” He continues. Virgil tries not to flinch—that dreaded question.

“Join the family business,” he says vaguely.

“And what’s that?”

Virgil smirks. “Anything anyone asks, we can provide,” he says. “For a price, of course.”

“Bit vague, isn’t it?” Logan’s dad says, suspicious.

“Father,” Logan cuts in, wearily.

“I’m just making conversation, Logan,” his dad says, defensively.

Virgil tucks away the milk and excuses himself out of that fun little conversation as swiftly as possible.

Patton ends up intercepting him to help with the pizza-and-ice-cream run and Virgil jumps on it—and Pearl and Penny do, too. Penny ends up sitting up front with Patton as Virgil keeps Pearl entertained by vanishing quarters and over again.

They get four pizzas and three quarts of ice cream and end up missing the departure of Logan’s parents, Roman’s parents, and Roman’s sister—Virgil’s kind of grateful that he doesn’t have to weather any questions from Logan’s dad anymore.

The sun’s long set by the time Patton’s family gets going—Patton’s siblings give him hugs, a few give him kisses on the cheek, and Pearl even doubles back to squeeze Virgil, hard, around the legs, before flitting off to her father.

Once the door closes behind them, it seems much quieter.

“This is our life for the next year,” Roman says, and Patton turns to smile at him.

“Seems like it.”

There’s a long pause.

“Do we want to eat a ton more ice cream?” Roman asks, and they congregate in the living room, flopped on the floor, dipping spoons in the various quarts, too strung out to actually talk.

It’s not a bad first day back.

* * *

The next morning, Patton makes them pancakes for breakfast. It’s kind of incredible; he doesn’t need to look at anything. He just _knows_ the exact amount of flour and water and eggs he needs to have the precise amount of batter for a precise amount of pancakes. If Virgil didn’t know any better, he’d think it was magic.

Virgil is learning that you learn a lot about people when you live together. Virgil knew that Logan watched Doctor Who and BBC’s Sherlock prior to living with him, but he didn’t know that Logan had two variations of Elemental Table Songs memorized. Virgil knew that Roman could be dramatic and fussy about his appearance, but he didn’t know Roman took five minutes to do his (what looked like) perfectly coiffed hair. Virgil knew the most about Patton; but he hadn’t known how many recipes Patton could come up with on the fly, to mixed results.

The semester’s pretty tame, to start. Virgil’s classes are decent, and he thinks that he’s gotten the hang of studying and doing homework for college courses; he’s got his own little corner, deep in the stacks, in the desolate east wing of the library. The bright side was, no one really tended to go up there, so it was the quietest, least disturbed place in the library, and good for getting some peace and quiet.

Because it just wasn’t possible to get peace and quiet in the apartment.

Someone’s always wandering in or out; Virgil’s discovered that Patton has a penchant for stress-baking and cooking, which turns out well for the rest of them, but it means that Patton tends to be in the kitchen a lot, and always ready for a conversation. Logan’s always in and out, but believes firmly in keeping everything in its certain space; so when he’s in the living room, he’s relaxing, but if he’s in his bedroom, he’s either studying or sleeping. And Roman, being Roman, is noisy basically all the time.

They settle into it… faster than Virgil expected it to, really. Whatever odd truce from over the summer has held to them living together, and Virgil’s been ensuring that his comments are sarcastic, but not biting. Roman hasn’t been as inclined to argue, lately, and Patton actually admitted when he was having a bad day recently, and Logan… well, he’s Logan.

That’s just the start of the semester, though. There’s a sudden influx of rain in late August, and Virgil knows what that can mean; to a point, good. But there’s flooding warnings and there was a campus-wide email about various routes to take to avoid particularly risky areas.

It’s during such a stormy night when Virgil practically feels his ears perk up, and the other three react a moment later, Patton sitting up from the couch where they’d slumped to watch a movie.

“Do you all hear that?”

Virgil hears it. Virgil also understands it better than anyone else. He dashes over to the balcony door, ignoring Roman’s yelp of “Virgil, the rain!” and throws the door open, squinting out into the night.

And yes—down there, Virgil can hear the yowling, and he knows what that means. He curses under his breath, and storms back out into the apartment, only stopping to grab his coat.

“Virgil!” Patton calls after him, but Virgil ignores it, thundering down all four flights of stairs and opening the door.

“Hey!” Virgil tries to call out into the pouring rain, squinting.

There’s a louder cry, and Virgil starts towards the sound, crouching.

“I’m Virgil,” he shouts to the cat.

“ComSci,” she pants— _computer sciences building,_ Virgil supposes, and she’s a long way from home—that’s across campus.

“Hi,” he says, and holds out his coat. “I—d’you want help? I can get you inside, where it’s warm. It’d be safer for the kits.”

ComSci tenses, before at last, she slumps, and Virgil carefully gathers her up in his coat, and takes the elevator, just to be certain he doesn’t jar her, shushing her whenever she makes a keening noise in the back of her throat, and opens the door.

“Virgil, what—” Logan begins, before blinking at his arms. “That’s a cat.”

“Well spotted,” Virgil says, already heading for his bathroom, managing to balance ComSci in one arm as he sweeps all of his clean towels into the other, dumping them into the bathtub as a makeshift nest, before carefully settling ComSci in the towels, tossing his coat to his hamper, and heading for his plant supplies.

Or, at least, trying, because there’s three gawping roommates in his doorway.

“ _Move,”_ Virgil says, and the other three look between each other.

“Do—what do you need?” Logan says, and Virgil huffs a breath, leveling a look at ComSci, who’s probably going to give birth in a fairly short amount of time.

“Towels or blankets you wouldn’t mind getting rid of,” Virgil says, trying to focus. “Plastic gloves, a lot of them, or if we don’t have that, um—an old toothbrush, if anyone’s got it?”

“Since _when_ —” Roman begins, and Virgil turns to shoot him a glare over his shoulder.

“Got it, got it,” Roman says, following the other two in attempting to find the supplies as Virgil crouches outside of the bathtub.

Really, it’s mostly up to ComSci now—providing a warm, safe environment for her to give birth helped, and checking on each of the kittens is all that’s left now, but he does need the—

“Here, blankets,” Patton says in a rush, and Virgil arranges them around ComSci without disturbing her, and barely manages to catch the box of plastic gloves Roman throws at him, and Virgil shoves on a pair.

“Okay, since when are you a vet?” Roman asks at last, sitting down on Virgil’s bed.

Virgil shrugs. “I take care of the cats in town, I told you about Goose, remember?”

Time mostly passes with Virgil very aware of the other three watching him, and almost immediately, Virgil can tell it’s go time.

“Okay, here we go, first kitten,” Virgil says, watching ComSci like a hawk, just in case he has to assist.

“What’s gonna happen?” Patton says. “What do we have to do?”

Virgil shrugs. “Honestly? Just keep calm and be prepared if there’s anything abnormal. She’ll remove the amniotic sac and I don’t have to cut the umbilical cord, so—”

“Should I look up the vet sciences number?” Logan asks, and Virgil nods.

“In case of emergency, yeah, just get it ready,” Virgil says, and looks at ComSci. “You’ll be all right, and this’ll be over soon, okay?”

Birth is both a beautiful and terrifying thing. ComSci’s an absolute champ—Virgil barely has to help at all, beyond ensuring each of the (five) kittens starts nursing as soon as possible, ComSci grooming each, Virgil swapping gloves as often as possible.

When it’s done, and each of the kittens is quietly nursing, Virgil leans back, and huffs a breath of relief.

All of the kittens are healthy, and ComSci’s pulled through just fine.

“Okay,” Virgil says, voice soft, and actually laughs, a little.

“Everything okay?” Patton checks, voice hushed, and Virgil looks over for the first time since labor picked up to see the three of them, still clustered in the doorway.

“All good,” Virgil says. “Mom and babies are all healthy. We’ll let them rest here, for now.”

He rises to his feet and starts to wash his hands. Even though he wore gloves, birth is still messy.

“That’s… incredible,” Patton says, before immediately sneezing.

“Patton, your allergies,” Logan says, and immediately herds him out of the room. Presumably to take his allergy medicine.

“How many cat births have you done, exactly?” Roman asks.

Virgil, belatedly, pushes his still-wet-but-slightly-drying hair out of his face a bit.

“I dunno,” Virgil says. “Six or seven, I guess. It wasn’t a frequent thing.”

“It’s six or seven more than I’ve ever done,” Roman says with a shrug, and then he _smiles_ at Virgil.

It’s the kind of smile that Virgil’s heavily aware of the fact that his hair is likely drying frizzy with all kinds of cowlicks, that his still-damp clothes are clinging to him in uncomfortable ways, that he’s been wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. That he probably looks like a disaster, and that Roman, with that congratulatory, soft kind of smile, with something deeper in his eyes, that he looks… beautiful.

“Yeah, well,” Virgil says, and coughs, looking away.

“Do we have to do anything else?” Roman asks, peeking in on the kittens.

“Probably best to let them be for a while,” Virgil says. “I’ll check on ‘em more later.”

Roman nods, and then he looks at Virgil, before nudging aside a lock of his wet hair with a laugh, and Virgil holds his breath.

“You should probably change out of those wet clothes,” Roman says, smiling. “And maybe brush your hair.”

“Right, yeah,” Virgil says, mouth dry. “I’ll do that. Um.”

Roman blinks, says “oh!” and moves to the door. “You can, um. You can pick next movie, I guess, with helping the miracle of life and everything. I’ll make sure we’ve got enough popcorn.”

He closes the door behind him.

Virgil takes a moment and asks himself _what the fuck was that?_ before he starts rifling through his dresser for pajamas.

 

They end up handing the kittens and ComSci over to the vet sciences.

Mostly because they don’t want to get evicted from their no-pets-allowed apartment, and also because Virgil wants someone to look after the kittens as often as possible, which they can’t do because of classes.

It also turns out that the number of stray cats has increased fivefold since Virgil’s gotten to campus, except the vet tech doesn’t phrase it quite like that. But Virgil knows.

Virgil quietly promises himself to go looking around to see if the cats want any help.

Patton tags along with him for the vet visits, most of the time, always making sure that he’s taken his allergy medicine, cooing quietly over the kittens, who open their eyes in no time.

“They’re so precious,” Patton says, hushed, and Virgil gives him a sideways glance.

“I like cats as much as you do, but you saw the lease. No pets.”

Patton sighs in regret. “I know.”

Virgil weathers the first wave of quizzes and tests and the first three-day weekend of the year comes up; he’s the only one staying in the apartment, and waves off any of their concerns by joking about the arcane rituals he’ll do under the full moon.

Well. “Joking.” He does actually want to finish up a potion that aids against forgetfulness, and it’s most effective when brewed under the light of the full moon, so, the only joking part of that is saying it’s a ritual, rather than a potion. But it gets them less worried about him, anyways.

So he gets three days to himself, from Friday afternoon to Monday evening. He spends it making that potion, meeting the variety of new cats, and otherwise doing absolutely nothing, scrolling through the internet and catching up on shows he’s been meaning to watch and cooking things that require the least amount of effort, along with sending a letter to Cora.

Roman and Patton join him in watching _Coraline_ when they get back, which turns into marathoning Disney movies for the rest of the afternoon, just waiting for Logan to come back. Gradually, as Virgil watches, Roman and Patton entangle in a kind of snuggle pile on the couch, and Virgil wishes for Logan to be here so they can exchange some kind of glance about it.

It takes until they’re on their third movie ( _Tangled)_ when the door opens, showing Logan holding the heft of his bags.

“Hey, Lo!” Patton says, grinning, head flopping back to look at him.

Logan, not stopping his rapid pace to his room, says tightly, “I do not have the _time_ to be sucked into your mindless ridiculousness at the moment.”

His door is shut with the kind of precise use of force that screams that Logan is upset.

Patton’s shrunk back into the couch cushions, before he moves to get up, clearly going to talk to him.

“Hang on, Pat,” Virgil says, from where he is on the armchair, separate from the pair of them who’ve turned to look at him. “I got it, this time.”

Patton hesitates, before he nods, and sinks back down into the couch. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Virgil says, and moves down the hall, where Logan and Virgil’s rooms are. Virgil drops into his room to pick up a couple things, before knocking on Logan’s door.

“I’m busy, Patton,” Logan snaps.

“Not Patton,” Virgil says, opening the door and shutting it behind him. Logan pauses to blink, and he’s not at the desk how Virgil thought he’d be, if he really was busy; he’s curled up on his bed, a thick book on his lap.

“Virgil,” he says, and then, “I’d rather—I need quiet.”

“Of the three other people in this apartment,” Virgil says, “I think I’m the only other one who’d get it like you do.”

Logan hesitates, and clarifies, “I’d like to be alone.”

Virgil surveys him. He’s sitting in his bed to read, and Logan adheres strongly to the concept of _beds for sleeping and sickness only._ The blankets, snapping at Patton, the fact that he was away with his family, who Virgil knows next to nothing about, other than the tight tense line of his shadow, the things Virgil can tell from seeing him, touching him—

“Fine,” Virgil says, and sits down on Logan’s bed, next to him. Logan blinks at him, grip tightening on his book.

“Then we’ll be alone together,” Virgil finishes, and strings his earbuds in his ears, leaning back against the pillows and folding his hands over his stomach. Logan narrows his eyes at him for a few seconds, before slowly cracking his book open, taking a breath, worrying the page between his fingers.

Virgil hits play on the playlist _when you need to chill out a bit but not enough to fall asleep,_ curated by Roman, and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Logan eyeing him, before starting to read.

He swaps the playlist partway through, to an audiobook, and Logan’s worked his way through three chapters before he speaks.

“I don’t like to fish.”

Virgil hits pause on the book and glances over at Logan, whose eyes are fixed on the book, a studious demonstration of avoiding eye contact.

Fine. Virgil can do that too. He returns his gaze to the ceiling.

“I’ve never liked to fish, not when I was a child, and I still don’t now. I like boat rides well enough, but I prefer when the boat’s actually moving somewhere. Fishing’s just… boating out to the middle of nowhere, and sitting, and _waiting._ Waiting for a catch was dull, seeing the fish hooked, throwing it in the cooler, and fileting them—it upset me. I would have liked it better if I could bring a book, could read on the boat, but I couldn’t. Had to watch the water, you understand.”

Virgil doesn’t—the Loch was never meant for fishing, so he’s never really been.

“During the summer family gatherings, it’s traditional for the men of the family to go out fishing while the women go and shop. We meet for dinner and eat whatever catches we get from the day. But see, I didn’t _like_ to fish. I would have preferred to be left at the hotel to read, but that wasn’t an option, because I couldn’t be trusted alone. I would have preferred to go shopping with my aunts and my cousins, but that wasn’t an option, because I couldn’t mess with tradition.” Logan pauses, turns a page.

“It feels a foolish place to point to, as where the divide began, but it’s the clearest I can remember. I didn’t like to fish, and my parents never quite forgave me for it.”

Virgil stills. Falls completely and absolutely still.

“Well, no,” Logan says, frowning. “Perhaps not quite. The fall after my first fishing day, my parents received a call from my teacher because I’d had my pretend-wedding during recess to Allen Saylor. Maybe then. Maybe the fishing was the crack, and the wedding was the break. Maybe as soon as I turned to books instead of sports. I don’t know. What I know is that I am not the son my parents wanted. Expected. Whichever.”

Virgil aches to reach over and—what? Hug him? Reassure him? He isn’t good at this. He isn’t an _emotions_ person. Neither is Logan, really.

“I know they love me—the kind of performative love, the sort of required love a parent’s expected to show to their child. I’m their eldest child, their _only_ child. I know I should be grateful to have parents that at least provide for my wellbeing, ensure I get a head start in life. I am privileged in that, I know it. I don’t think I would have gotten into the PhD program without those advantages. But I… well. Outwardly, of course, they’re _very_ okay with anyone different with them, the whole family is. However…”

Virgil glances over, out of the corner of his eye. Logan’s still staring at his book.

“You can’t tell Roman,” he says, his voice a facsimilie of calm, and Virgil’s eyes closed. He knows too well what Logan’s dad might have said. If Logan’s dad thought Logan was straight, and if he’d targeted Roman, the most blatantly out-and-proud member of their apartment.

“I see.” Virgil says, and looks over at Logan. “Would you like me to ruin his life for you?”

That startles Logan into a brief chuckle, and Virgil’s only half-kidding. But he’s happy it made Logan smile.

“A little, if you want,” Logan says, a smile clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Just a little, though. He’s still my father.”

Virgil nods, wonders what the subtlest thing he could get away with would be, mentally makes a note to send a letter to Uncle asking about it.

“Logan,” Virgil says, and Logan looks at him. Virgil takes a breath.

“You know we’re both really bad at this,” Virgil adds, as a preface. “But. You know that you worked your ass off, and that’s why you’re in the PhD program, right? It doesn’t matter that you went to really good schools. Tons of people go to really good schools and don’t make anything of it. Sure, it _helped,_ and like, I’m not saying you’re not privileged, but. You’re the one who got straight A’s and all that, okay? You’re the one who decided to go after astronomy instead of, I don’t know, business, or something like that. The fact that you—you like astronomy, or you like boys, whatever. It’s what makes you you. It’s not something to be looked down at because it’s not traditional, or whatever the fuck. It’s what you like, and it’s your life, and you’re an adult, you can go about it however you want. Okay?”

Logan pauses, and says, “You aren’t as bad at this as you think you are.”

Virgil pauses too. “Well.” He starts. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” Logan says, and Virgil fishes one earbud out of his ear, offers it to Logan.

“You wanna listen to an audiobook with me?”

Logan accepts it, and Virgil turns on the Sherlock Holmes megacollection he got, mostly because Logan had recommended it so much, and he sees Logan smile and relax even more out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

When Virgil walks out of the apartment, Logan and Roman are arguing over routine.

The sight of them arguing isn’t really out of the ordinary; even though they’ve all grown closer, and their words aren’t quite as barbed anymore, they still fall into bickering easily, especially Roman and Virgil, and Roman and Logan.

When Virgil walks back in, two hours later, they’re still arguing.

Virgil stops, and says directly to Patton, who’s scrolling on his phone, “Are they seriously still arguing about the same thing?”

Both Roman and Logan stop, offended that Virgil hasn’t addressed them.

“Yep,” Patton says brightly, and looks directly at Virgil, also ignoring Roman and Logan. “You’d think they’d realize that the best approach is a combination of their methods, and that they’re fighting towards a common goal.”

“You’d think so, right,” Virgil agrees, flopping on the couch next to Patton as if they’re talking about someone miles away from their apartment, and not standing right in front of them. “You’d also think that if they learned how to put their egos aside, they’d make a really good team.”

Logan and Roman blink at him, startled, before swiveling to look at each other.

Roman offers a tentative, apologetic smile. Logan’s face grows slightly softer as he quirks a brow. It’s the closest to a truce they’re going to get.

“Good job,” Patton whispers into his ear, and Virgil jostles him fondly. “You started it,” he murmurs back.

They end up going for dinner, with Logan and Roman holding some kind of tenuous, delicate silence between them as they think it over, and as such speak directly only to Patton or Virgil. Which is an issue, because Virgil has a case of daydreaming, feeling his mind drift; the apartment complex, in one of its rare moments, is complaining about a hole in its walls somewhere.

“—can so do a handspring. What, I’ve never showed you?”

Virgil blinks at Roman, and demands immediately, “Show me.”

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Earnest-o de la Cruz.”

Virigl stabs his spoon in his direction. “Take that back.”

Roman holds up his hands apologetically, and says, “But we’d have to go outside, there isn’t enough room in here.”

“Outside it is,” Patton says decisively. “Where’d you learn to do a back handspring, anyway?”

Roman waves a hand. “Choreography for a show—I forget which. Somehow, I tripped doing a jazz square, but a roundoff into a back handspring? Got it in three tries and haven’t messed up since.”

They clamber down the stairs, and Roman finds a suitably grassy area. He wipes his hands on his jeans, gages the distance, and waves them aside.

And then, Roman runs, turning perfectly into a cartwheel, and flipping his body for the handspring, bouncing up at the end.

They all applaud as Roman bows at them cartoonishly, turning his wrists and bending almost down to touch his toes.

Virgil sees Logan, out of the corner of his eye, smiling much more than usual.

* * *

They’ve developed their chores patterns. Patton cooks, because he likes it, and Virgil takes dishes. Logan vacuums and sweeps, Roman wipes down the common surfaces and makes sure everything looks nice. They tend to all tag together on grocery trips and split the costs on food.

It works. Everything works. Virgil probably shouldn’t be as suspicious of all of this as he should be, but he just feels something on the air that something’s going to go wrong soon enough.

 _Something wrong_ blows into town with the autumn breeze, and when Virgil’s least expecting it. Logan’s looking over one of Virgil’s assignments at the breakfast bar, and they’re debating word choice as Patton checks over the supplies for dinner when there’s a knock on the door.

They share a frown, before Virgil hops off his stool and goes to open it up, only to stare, just a touch slackjawed.

“Hey there, squirt,” Gillian says, leaning against the entryway. “Miss me?”

Virgil regrets, immediately, that he’s wearing short sleeves. What he wants to ask is _how did you get my address?_ and _didn’t you run off to get married to someone seven years ago?_ and _what’s gone wrong now?_

He’s silent the whole time, and Patton appears at his back. “Virgil, who’s this?”

Gillian smiles, and reaches her hand forward. “Gillian Fae,” she purrs. “And may I have your name?”

That’s enough to spur Virgil into action. He knocks Patton’s hand off track, and says, bristling, “You may _call him_ Puck.”

Gillian grins at Virgil. “You’re not so rusty, after all.”

 _May I have your name’s_ an old trick, the one the more traditional Faes would use; it would imply _taking_ a name, and once a Fae had your name in the old days, it was essentially game over. Giving a partial name, or a fake one, and not taking their hand was an easy enough way to circumvent that.

“What are you doing here,” Virgil says stiffly, stepping subtly in front of Patton.

She shrugs, tucks her hands in her pockets. “I was in town, and I was bored,” she says easily. “Thought maybe my baby cousin’d want to take me for a spin, show me the sights.”

Virgil’s eyes narrow. “What’re you in town for?”

Her grin widens. “Passing through,” she says easily. “Gonna see Sally and the girls.”

Sally, Gillian’s sister, is as well-suited to the image of a wild Fae that Virgil is; that is, Sally basically resorted to becoming a domestic housewife and was thrilled about it, last he’d heard. Poor thing’d have the curse kick in soon enough.

“Keep passing,” Virgil says curtly, and goes to shut the door when Gillian’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist, and Virgil catches his breath instinctively.

But there’s no sudden wave of anger, or sadness, or anything.

“Now, Virgil,” she says, voice low. “Uncle Dee’d be so disappointed to hear about your lack of courtesy. What happened to Faes first?”

“Virgil,” Patton says, soft, and Virgil gives him a look, suddenly very aware of the three people in this apartment, and how unaware they were of his family history. And how badly things could fuck up if they heard.

He looks back to Gillian.

“Fine,” he says, and reaches for his jacket, shrugging it on immediately. “We’ll go to dinner. That’s it. Dinner only.”

Gillian smiles even wider. “Knew you’d come round.” He opens the door wider, and she struts easily down the hallway. “Must’ve be your mother’s side kicking in,” she calls back, and Virgil’s hand tightens on the door, before he looks at Patton, who’s looking at Virgil, full of concern.

“If I’m not back in an hour, call me with an excuse,” Virgil tells him, before he shuts the door.

Virgil doesn’t take her to the Busy Bean, or anywhere particularly nice. He takes her to the nearest fast food place, which turns out to be a Taco Bell.

She scowls at him. “Really?”

Virgil opens the door for her. “I said dinner, I didn’t make any promises about quality.”

She rolls her eyes, but flounces up to the counter anyways, turning the charm up to eleven. Gillian’s ten years older than him, and thereby ten years younger than Uncle; the fact that she’s thirty and has on a visible wedding ring is doing nothing to make the college-aged cashiers less fond of her.

Gillian orders a slightly absurd amount of food; Virgil gets a soda and a side of cinnamon twists, intent on not ruining his appetite for Patton’s dinner.

Her eyebrows arch, and Virgil shrugs, nudging the twists.

“I technically got something to eat,” he says, and goes to sit at a booth as she waits for her various combos. When she brings over her tray, Virgil leans forward.

“Why are you really in town, Gill?” He asks in an undertone.

Gillian snatches one of Virgil’s cinnamon twists. “I really am going to see Sally and the girls,” she says, and glances at her wedding ring in slight distaste. “Jimmy ran into some trouble, so.”

Virgil frowns. “I thought your husband’s name was Sean?”

Gillian laughs. “Ooh, hon, you’re behind the times,” she says pleasantly. “No, no. Jimmy’s the current fling. Well. Last fling, I suppose.”

Virgil sighs. He really doesn’t know why he expected anything different. She’s never really been able to keep her attention on one thing—as soon as she gets what she wants, she’s always turned her attention to the next thing. She and Sally are like night and day.

Gillian pauses, and adds casually, “Got some word from Dee too.”

Virgil’s eyes narrow. “No chance you’ll tell me the exact words?”

“Nada,” Gillian says cheerfully. “You understand him way better than I do, you’d puzzle it out immediately. Anyways, I’m swinging by to see him after this, to get some…” she trails off, and shakes herself. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway. Is it really so unbelievable that I’d wanna stop by to see you?”

“Gillian, I haven’t seen you since you married Sean,” Virgil points out. “Remember? You ran away from Fae house. You packed up most of the liquor cabinet with you. I helped tie together the bedsheets so you could climb down from one of the towers.”

“Oh, I’d forgotten I’d taken all of that old wine,” she says.

He’s probably not going to get a straight answer. He doesn’t really know why he’d expected any different.

“Anyways,” Gillian adds, thunking her elbows on the table. “Little cousin, off to go get _enriched,_ or whatever. College, V, really?”

“I like it here,” Virgil says mildly. “I always liked school more than you did.”

She snorts. “ _School,”_ she says. “Right. That’s why you’re here.”

“Plant sciences major and everything,” Virgil says. “I could have brought along my most recent essay, I was editing it when you showed up.”

If he’s not going to get a straight answer, Gillian’s not going to get a straight answer.

They play that game for quite a while, before Gillian, eating as slowly as possible, says, “So, those boys you live with. _Puck_ ,” she sneers, “seems cute.”

“He’s my friend,” Virgil says, keeping his voice at the same mild level he’s kept it at their whole conversation. “I wasn’t about to let you take the name of one of my _friends.”_

“Virgil,” she says, flatly. “ _Friends?”_

“A whole three of ‘em,” Virgil says, taking an obnoxious slurp of soda.

“Faes don’t have friends, Virgil.”

“Faes have siblings, too,” Virgil says, keeping the bite out of his voice. “And yet here I am.”

Gillian shrugs. “Maybe you do, and you just don’t know.”

It takes a while for what she’s saying to click, and Virgil grits his teeth.

“Right,” he says, calmly, and grabs his jacket. “That’s that, then. Have a nice rest of your dinner, Gillian, tell Sally and the girls I say hi.”

“ _Virgil,”_ she sighs, as if he’s the one being unreasonable.

“No,” Virgil says, turning. “No. You _knew_ my parents, you know how much my dad loved my mom, you know that it—no. Have a nice trip. Tell Uncle whatever you want. Sorry about the situation with _Jimmy_. I’m leaving.”

He storms out of the Taco Bell, and, to his gratitude, she doesn’t follow him.

He manages to slow his pace, and enters the apartment, hangs up his coat, calmly takes a plate from Patton, and says, “I’m eating in my room.” before he makes his retreat.

He isn’t hungry.

Bizarrely, this is what infuriates him most.

It’s pasta with marinara sauce and garlic bread. Virgil _loves_ pasta and garlic bread. But he’s lost his appetite because his cousin, who he hasn’t seen in years, blew into town and knocked him off his rhythm, and insulted his dead father, and—

“Knock knock,” Patton calls, opening the door just a crack.

Virgil blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, belatedly, and looks down at the dish. “Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure,” Virgil says, and scoots over a bit so Patton can sit down on the bed.

“Your cousin, huh?” He prompts gently, and Virgil grimaces.

“Our grandmothers were half-sisters.”

“So, distant cousin, got it,” Patton says. “Are you okay?”

Virgil grimaces, and says, “I mean, other than the fact that she tried to imply that my dad cheated on my mom and I have a secret sibling somewhere, it was, you know. The usual.”

Patton gasps, and that’s enough to open the floodgates.

“It’s not like he—they were _twenty,_ when they had me,” Virgil snaps. “They got married when they were eighteen, it’s not like they even _dated_ anyone other than each other, let alone—” Virgil cuts himself off, looks away, and takes a deep breath.

Patton’s hand settles on Virgil’s shoulder. “I didn’t know they were so young,” Patton says, softly, and Virgil laughs without humor.

“Yeah. Yeah, they—they met when they were in kindergarten. The way my Mom told it, that was it. People kept telling her not to, it was a bad idea to get involved with a Fae—my uncle included, actually—but they didn’t care. She asked him out, and she proposed, and they got married, and—well.” Virgil shrugs a shoulder. “I happened.”

There’s a pause. Patton puts a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, and asks, soft, “Virgil?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask how they died?”

Virgil pauses, blinks at him, and studies his hands. He lets out a long sigh.

“It’s okay if you don’t want—”

“No,” Virgil says. “No, it’s okay. Um. They think—the toxicology report said arsenic poisoning.”

Patton’s hand pauses from where it’d been running up and down his back.

Virgil smiles, humorless. “I guess that’s not really what people expect, whenever I say my parents both died when I was little,” he says. “People expect, I dunno. Car crash, or a plane accident, or something… something more common. But, um. We ran out of food in the house, that day. And my parents decided to order Chinese food.”

He remembers. He’d had honey chicken. Uncle had lo mein. His parents had split General Tso’s.

“My Dad thought it was weird—they put in these, like. These almond and coconut cookies in with the order. My mom liked to bake a lot, and we’d been working through her latest experiments. Uncle doesn’t like coconut, and I wanted something with chocolate. So they both ate two. I, um. I didn’t know until later that arsenic apparently tastes like almonds.”

“ _Virgil,”_ Patton says, soft, and wraps an arm around Virgil’s shoulder. Virgil tilts his head so it rests on Patton’s shoulder, but he keeps talking.

“Apparently, there was some kind of… vengeful boyfriend at the delivery place, I guess. We lived next door to his ex’s family. He didn’t realize—” Virgil clears his throat. “Didn’t realize he had the wrong address. And Uncle woke me up in the middle of the night, and put his jacket over my face so I didn’t—so I didn’t see anything—”

Virgil chokes up, then, has to let out a shaky breath and rub a hand over his face, until Patton pulls him so his face is in Patton’s shoulder. It hasn’t hit him, until now, how _young_ his parents were when they died. Twenty-six sounds like an eternity year old when you’re six. When you’re almost nineteen? When his roommates are all (almost) twenty?

“That’s why you hate almonds?”

“That’s why I hate almonds,” Virgil confirms, voice muffled into Patton’s neck.

There’s a pause, and Patton asks, “Virgil?”

“Yeah?”

“You, um. You said _they think,_ when you were explaining all this. Do you think… something else happened?” He says. His voice is careful, and soft.

Virgil pulls back, and surveys Patton. “You’re a lot more observant than we give you credit for, you know?”

Patton shrugs.

“Basically?” Virgil says. “Yeah. It’s—” Virgil hesitates.

How does he explain the curse without unearthing the fact that he’s more magic than he’s already told Patton?

“It’s… a thing,” Virgil says, cautious. “I mean, it sounds really superstitious, and I… I’d rather not go fully into it, actually. But, um. The only time—literally, the only time—my uncle’s ever left my hometown was to visit us, before they died. And one of the last conversations I overheard from my parents was them telling my Uncle about how he needed to follow through with the will and take me in. They knew it was coming. All three of them did.”

 _I heard it coming, too,_ Virgil adds on silently, _and I didn’t realize it._

There’s a long, long pause.

“Virgil,” Patton says at last, “that’s really fucked up.”

Patton swearing shocks Virgil into hysterical laughter.

“It is!” Patton squeaks, red-faced.

“No, no, I agree,” Virgil says, and wipes the tears of laughter from under his eyes. “Christ, I wish I was recording that. Roman’s never gonna believe me that you swore with an audience.”

“It’s never gonna happen again,” Patton declares, and picks up Virgil’s plate. “I’m gonna reheat this for you, mkay? And also find something sweet.”

He ruffles Virgil’s hair, and in that moment, Virgil desperately misses Cora.

When Patton goes to heat up his food, Virgil digs out a piece of paper and starts drafting a letter to her—letting her know Gillian dropped into town, but nothing else, and moving on to mention the various other things that have happened during the week.

When Patton gets back, balancing Virgil’s plate and a plate of chocolate cupcakes for them to share, Virgil finally starts to feel hungry.

* * *

Fall brings with it crisp breezes, Patton doing more experiments with apple-based dishes, and Logan’s birthday. Logan basically entreats them to eat the cake Patton has prepared, with minimal gifts, and an evening spent watching _Cosmos_ , which Virgil thinks is a pretty good birthday. However, after that, it also means that fall brings Roman screaming about the fall semester theater performance.

He’s got a big role this time, bigger than last year, which is unusual for a sophomore. He’s already ensured that they’re all going to the show, and he often recites lines absentmindedly. It’s gotten to the point where Virgil kind of feels like throttling him whenever he starts reciting his second-act monologue.

When he gets home early from a cancelled lab, he sees Roman sitting on their balcony, legs under the railing so he can swing his legs back and forth into the open air. His back is tense, and Virgil’s moving before he can really think.

He opens the door to the balcony, and sits next to Roman, a bare breath of space between them, so they’re just barely not touching.

“Hey,” Virgil says, voice soft.

Roman huffs a long sigh. “Hi,” he mumbles.

Virgil licks his lips, and says, “You okay?”

Roman’s eyes slide shut, and he says, “I’m not cut out for this.”

Virgil blinks. “For… what?”

“Acting,” he says. “I—Virgil, it’s _over.”_

“You— _what?”_ Virgil says, incredulous. “ _Roman._ Listen to yourself. What could have possibly happened to make you think that your acting career’s over?”

Roman groans, and says, “The student paper show review.”

Virgil blinks. “I’m… confused,” he says cautiously. “The show hasn’t happened yet, what—?”

“The fine arts reporters want to make it a whole… _series,_ following us from rehearsals to the show, or something,” Roman groans, head against the paper. “And they turned up to interview me today, and it was—”

Roman grimaces, and something in his eyes tips Virgil off.

“…someone who doesn’t quite like you very much,” Virgil finishes delicately.

Roman groans louder. “Understatement,” he gripes. “I—before we were friends—look, it was short and it ended messy—”

It clicks, then.

“Oh, God,” Virgil says. “An _ex?_ Roman. You’re letting a bitter _ex_ dictate if your acting career’s over? No one even _reads_ the student paper.”

“Virgil, it’s not _funny,”_ Roman says, and Virgil hastens to assure him that he’s not laughing.

“If future casting agents look up my name, they’re gonna see whatever article they write, it’s—”

“Okay,” Virgil says, letting out a sigh. “Okay, I get it. What’s this dude’s name?”

Roman looks at him sideways, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because I’m gonna take care of it,” Virgil says patiently. “I just need a name, Roman.”

“How are you—?” Roman begins, looking sideways at him.

“Just the name,” Virgil says. “You just worry about the show. They’re gonna be raving about you, okay?”

Roman squints at him, before he says at last, “Tristan. Tristan Howard.”

Virgil nods, name settled in his head. “Okay,” he says, and pats Roman on the back. “It’s gonna be fine, I swear.”

Patton comes home, soon enough, to take care of the rest of Roman’s frayed nerves, and Virgil dials a number.

“Virgil,” Uncle says pleasantly. “To what do I owe this completely normal call?”

Virgil grimaces. He really doesn’t ever call Uncle, but it’s important.

“Can you check one of the grimoires for me?” Virgil asks. “I’ve got some business to handle here.”

He can hear Uncle’s smile over the line.

 

Virgil’s got his headphones on.

See, usually he studies in the library, but today, he’s found a pretty decent booth in the basement of the student center, which also happens to be the floor where the student paper is housed. He’s glancing through one of his textbooks, but only performatively; his eyes keep glancing to the glass door that blocks him off from the amateur news room.

When Virgil spies a blond head he’s seen in social media pictures, he shuts his textbook with a snap and follows after him.

They wait for the bus. Well, Tristan waits for the bus. Virgil hovers a while back, and follows him on, settling in the seat next to him and nudging off his headphones.

“Tristan,” Virgil says pleasantly, “Isn’t it?”

Tristan looks at him sideways. “Uh, yeah. Have we met?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Virgil says easily. “Actually, I’d argue he’s really more _my_ friend than yours. Roman Prince.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tristan says lazily. “Right. _Friends,_ I get it. He gets clingy, so good luck with—”

Virgil doesn’t rise to the bait, though he does take a moment to wonder why Tristan jumped to thinking he’s Roman’s boyfriend. “That’s not really what I came to talk about,” Virgil says, and takes off the glove he’s kept on his right hand, outstretching his now-bare hand. “Virgil Fae.”

Tristan shakes his hand, and freezes, immediately. Virgil can feel the pins and needles arcing down his arm, and by the way Tristan tries to jerk away, he feels them, too. But Virgil tightens his grip on Tristan’s hand, and leans in so he’s talking directly into Tristan’s ear, no chance of eavesdroppers.

“Listen to me very closely and if you follow directions we’ll only have this conversation once,” Virgil says lowly. “If you attempt to intentionally sabotage Roman, then I’m going to have to have a conversation with the Provost. For an English major, you’d think you’d understand about the risks of plagiarism and offering essay writings to your friends for—what was it, again? Fifty dollars for three pages? I think being placed on academic probation might put a little damper in that scholarship of yours, won’t it? Not to mention stealing and selling those test answers for your political sciences course. They’ve been looking for you for a long time. I could only imagine that an accusation this serious would impact your plans for the future pretty heavily, wouldn’t it?”

Tristan makes a whimpering noise in the back of his throat. His eyes widen in alarm, and he tries again, making an even louder noise.

“You’ll find that you can’t talk anymore,” Virgil says, calm. “Don’t panic, it’ll wear off by midnight. Just a warning. Your vocal chords will recover by midnight. If you do try to cross me… well. No one’s going to care what you have to say. And you’ll never even be able to try. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Tristan’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head.

“Of course,” Virgil continues, tightening his grip on Tristan’s hand so he can feel the bone creaking under his fingers, “If you, say, actually follow some journalistic integrity and don’t let your emotions get in the way of your reporting, and write about how integral Roman is to the excellence of the show, along with the glowing recommendations of his character that he deserves—well, I suppose I’d be able to keep my mouth shut for a bit longer, wouldn’t I? And you’d be able to open yours back up again.”

A higher-pitched noise.

“And be sure to let your lackeys know too,” Virgil adds, voice pleasant again. “We’d have to have another little chat if you try to go through them. You’re fine arts editor, you have some kind of sway, so don’t try to wiggle around this. You won’t like what happens if you do. Clear?”

He nods.

“Good.” Virgil lets go of his hand and slides out of the seat., tugging the glove back on. “It was nice meeting you, Tristan,” Virgil says. “For your sake, I’m sure you’d prefer if we never had to again.”

Virgil walks down the aisle and gets out at the stop, nudging his headphones back over his ears with a smile.

 

Roman emerges from the hall leading to backstage, sweaty, makeup messy, and beaming a mile wide.

“Roman!” Patton squeals, dabbing hurriedly at his eyes with a tissue, and intercepting him in a hug.

“Don’t tell me you cried, Patton,” Roman says, grin never faltering.

“You didn’t tell me you _died,”_ Patton defends, and Logan shuffles around so they can hand over the massive bouquet.

“From all of us,” Logan adds, hasty, at Roman’s surprised look.

“It’s lovely,” Roman says, and sniffs delicately at the bouquet (alstroemerias, birds of paradise, gardenias, white heather, purple irises, orange lilies, snapdragons, yellow and orange roses, statice) and directs his full-wattage smile at Virgil. “This is a whole essay of flower meanings, isn’t it?”

Virgil shrugs his shoulders, and says, “You did good, Princey.”

Roman smiles at him, a little softer, before he laughs and wipes at his face with his sleeve and fans himself.

“I’m gonna have a stage light tan, I can feel it,” he says, with a dramatic huff. Patton, teasingly, starts fanning him with his program, and Logan and Virgil chime in, Roman pretending to toss his hair and leaning into the meager breeze.

“Oh,” Roman adds, brightly, “um, you three can come along to the cast party, if you want, but—” he glances over his shoulder, and leans close, adding in an undertone, “Honestly, I’ve dropped by the last two nights and it was… not your usual scene, so—”

“So skip it.”

Virgil blinks at himself—the words kind of jumped out of his mouth, and now the other three have turned to stare at him.

“Skip it,” Virgil repeats. “You’ve dropped in the past two nights, you can cut this time. We can—we can go out for breakfast for dinner, or something, and—do what you want.” Virgil trails off, and adds lamely, “If you want to, I mean.”

Roman pauses, considering, and grins wider.

“You know what?” Roman says decisively. “That sounds awesome. I’m super in, I want waffles. Are we doing I-Hop or the diner near Broadway?”

They end up piling in Patton’s car and going to the diner, all cramming into a booth that’s probably meant to seat two people, perusing the menu as Roman uses some wipes and scrubs free the makeup that’s caked to his face, as well as loudly debating what _variety_ of waffles he’s gonna get with Logan.

Virgil, currently pressed between Patton and the wall, could only hide his smile behind the diner menu.

“—see, you _mention_ that adding fruit would technically make it healthier, but it’s still full sugar,” Logan points out.

“Yeah, but _extra fruit,”_ Roman says.

“Do you think a chocolate milkshake _and_ double chocolate chip pancakes is too much?” Patton says thoughtfully, tilting his head at the menu, and Logan turns his exasperated gaze to him.

“We’re celebrating,” Virgil says, firm. “Go for it.”

“Then you complain to Virgil when you get a stomachache,” Logan says, and Virgil smirks at Logan.

“Come to me if you have a stomachache, I’ll have something for it,” Virgil says, and Patton grins at him, knocking their shoes together under the table.

When their drinks come, Logan lifts his glass and says, “To Roman. Congratulations on your make-believe going well.”

Roman snorts, clinking his glass against Logan’s. “Thanks, George Loony.”

“To Roman,” Virgil and Patton echo, and Roman rolls his eyes, but a pleased smile clings to his mouth nonetheless.

They order obscene amounts of sugar, even Logan, and each of them steal bites from each other’s plates, elbows knocking together, Roman’s post-show high making everything seem hilarious, Roman telling elaborate backstage tails and nearly knocking Logan in the head with each gesture that would make Virgil start laughing, and then Patton would start laughing, and no one could ever stand to hear Patton’s laugh and _not_ laugh along, so they could barely get through a sentence without laughing at each other.

It hits him as Patton’s laughingly trying to box out Roman from stealing a bite of his pancakes when it hits Virgil.

He’s _happy._ He doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy in his whole life.

Virgil smiles wider and, sees Roman uses the distraction Patton’s giving him to steal a bite of Logan’s French toast. He sends his fork into the fray.

* * *

Winter finals, the second time around, are oddly less stressful than last year’s.

For starters, Patton’s more involved, this time, so he butts in whenever he and Logan look “too stressed,” which mostly means that Virgil’s baked goods intake goes up exponentially.

Somehow, some way, Patton’s somehow managed to get Cora’s recipe for jam tarts, which is mostly monopolized by Roman and Logan, but he also gets the same brand of butterscotch candies Cora always gives Virgil.

Virgil pops one into his mouth immediately. “How did you…?”

Patton shrugs. “I checked an envelope before you sent her a letter, I figured asking her about the tarts would be good, considering Logan and Roman eat them basically immediately. She’s really nice.”

Virgil smiles. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Auntie C’s the best.”

“She sent me a few other recipes too,” Patton says, and hands over the letter. Virgil touches the familiar curve of the _D_ in _dear,_ and vows to himself to write a thank-you note to her for responding to Patton.

“You miss her a lot, huh?” Patton prompts, and Virgil shrugs.

“Uncle’s… well, Uncle, he’s, um. Kind of hard to describe, I guess,” Virgil says vaguely. “Basically, the whole concept of, like, _parenting…_ Uncle made sure I had a room and clothes and that kind of thing, but Cora’s the one who bullies me into eating my vegetables and cleaning out my backpack, and stuff like that.”

Patton smiles, and Virgil points out a fudge recipe before he starts doubling down on studying for his lab final.

“Oh, my _God,”_ Roman’s exclaiming when Virgil walks into the apartment, “you’re not _actually_ being serious, are you?”

“I do not like to sing,” Logan says flatly.

Virgil squints at them, clinging to his coffee he’d snagged from the Busy Bean.

“Are you singing at _eleven at night,”_ Virgil rasps. Finals are _killing him._

“ _Roman_ is attempting to goad me into singing,” Logan informs Virgil from the midst of his paper hurricane, laying waste to the vast majority of their living room. Virgil picks his way through the spots their carpet peeks through, and perches on an armchair, digging out his laptop.

“It’s almost _Christmas,_ Mr. Grinch,” Roman protests, a certain manic light in his eye that meant he was probably procrastinating. “Or should I say Mr. Grouch?”

Virgil boos.

And then Roman swivels and beams at him.

“You could join in!”

Virgil snorts, then. “No way,” he says.

“You can’t be worse than Logan,” Roman says reasonably, and Logan scowls at him more, before tugging on his hair, making the tufts and cowlicks of Logan’s usually-neat-now-disastrous hair stick up even further, as he looks at his astronomy study guides.

And very suddenly, Virgil gets what Roman’s supposed to do. Okay, sure, he might Look a bit deeper, but, whatever. He gets it now.

“Okay, whatever,” Virgil says with a long sigh. “I don’t know many carols, though.”

Logan looks at him, grumbles a bit under his breath, and Roman grins, before trampling over several of Logan’s paper, handing over some music.

“You printed out sheet music for this,” Virgil says, and looks at Roman. “Roman, you know I don’t know how to read music, right?”

“It has the words on it,” Roman says, and gasps. “I nearly forgot Patton!”

Virgil and Logan both exchange a long-suffering look, before looking at the music.

And then Virgil squints at the lyrics.

“Oh, God, he wrote the lyrics himself,” Virgil mutters, and Logan and Virgil only have enough time to exchange a panicked look before the other two (bubblier) occupants of the apartment come forward, managing to find their places in the apartment.

Okay, it’s probably true that Virgil could be better at singing than Logan. Because Logan seems to modulate in an entirely monotone voice for each lyric Roman’s tried to write.

To put it gently, it immediately goes off the rails. For Roman.

For Logan, hearing Patton and Virgil sneakily change the lyrics and mutter side remarks makes him actually smile, for the first time in days, in the midst of all the stress and panic.

For Roman… it is less fun.

“Roman,” Virgil says. “ _Roman._ _Bubba gump shrimp?_ ”

“What could that possibly have to do with us?”

“It doesn’t even make _sense_ —”

“It’s finals week,” Roman declares, flustered, “ _Nothing makes sense.”_

Virgil pauses, shrugs, and concedes that point.

Until Roman, Logan, and Patton all decide to pull some _sappy shit._

“ _And an emo who’s now our best friend.”_

Virgil wishes he wasn’t blushing so bad, and shoves off Roman when he loops an arm around his shoulders and musses his hair, crooning the line over and over in his ear.

“Get _off_ ,” Virgil grumbles. “God, you’re so annoying, are there any other stupid plans to break finals stress?”

“Well,” Patton starts, and Virgil turns in time for the lights of the apartment to go out, save candle light.

Candles on a cake.

“Roman’s exhaustingly dramatic, and has such planned this part,” Logan says dryly.

“Happy early birthday, Virgil,” Patton says, grinning, and Virgil falters.

“I,” Virgil begins, and clears his throat. “I, um. None of you are gonna sing happy birthday, right?”

“You are incorrect,” Roman declares, and leads the song, all noisy and full-hearted. Virgil and Logan both share long-suffering looks.

Virgil huffs out the candles as soon as the song is over, and Patton sets the cake down on the counter to pull Virgil into a hug.

“Happy birthday, Virge,” he says, warm breath huffing along Virgil’s ear, and Virgil smiles into Patton’s shoulder.

“Thanks, Patton.”

“Cake, cake, cake, cake,” Roman chants, and Patton laughs, pulling back, before digging around for a knife and plates.

Roman cuffs an arm around Virgil’s neck and musses his hair, _again,_ and Virgil snorts this time, shoving him off, and Roman shoves back, just a little.

“I can’t believe you’re such a baby,” Roman teases. “ _Just_ nineteen, and not even nineteen yet!”

“Shut up,” Virgil grumbles. “I can’t help that I was _born.”_

“Accurate,” Logan says, and Virgil rolls his eyes at him.

“But,” Logan says. “As improbable as it is, I’m glad that it was _you_ that was born.”

“Aww,” Roman says, immediately ruining the moment. “Logan, that’s really sweet!”

“Speaking of sweets,” Patton says, grinning, and Logan groans, even as Patton hands him his plate.

“Thanks, you guys,” Virgil mumbles, accepting the plate from Patton and immediately shoving a forkful in his mouth, before freezing.

“This is Cora’s recipe,” he says around the mouthful of cake, and Patton smiles at him.

“Yeah, she sent it with the jam tarts and stuff when I mentioned maybe doing something for your birthday,” he adds, casual. “Which, also, hang on.”

Patton goes off to his room and returns holding some familiar stationary. Virgil sets aside the cake and opens it.

_Dear Virgil,_

_Happy birthday! Well, early birthday, I’ll see you on your actual birthday. That Patton boy (I told you I liked him) asked for some recipes. He told me more about those boys that you live with, and I’ve certainly been seeing more and more about them in your letters. You’ll have to tell me everything about them when you get home._

_Hugs,_

_Auntie Cora_

Virgil smiles a little and carefully folds the note, sticking it in his pocket.

“Okay,” Virgil says. “Cake, and we’re watching Nightmare Before Christmas, and _then_ we’re all studying.”

Patton bumps hips with him, and Virgil crashes onto the couch, ready to binge on sugar and forget his studies, just for a couple hours, smiling privately to himself.

_Our best friend._

* * *

“How were finals, then?”

Virgil shrugs, takes a sip of the butterscotch milkshake Cora’s considering adding to the menu. “Okay. I didn’t flunk anything, I don’t think.”

“The height of achievement,” she says dryly. “I’m sure you did fine. Great, even.”

She pauses, and adds, “How about those roommates of yours? They feel good about everything?”

“You aren’t as subtle as you think you are,” Virgil says, equally dry, and adds, “They’re pretty sure they did well. Roman was kind of worried, he had to take some kind of econ course this semester, for whatever reason, but he’s probably pulled through it okay.”

“Roman’s the theater one, who loves my tarts,” Cora checks, and Virgil nods.

“Logan’s the astronomy one who loves your tarts,” Virgil adds dutifully, “and Patton’s the teaching one who asked for the recipes for your tarts.”

“It was sweet of him, to ask about all that,” Cora says.

Virgil talks around his straw so he doesn’t smile. “Pat’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.”

Cora smiles enough so he doesn’t have to, and Virgil scowls at her, just out of habit, not out of any actual emotion.

She smiles, and says, “Every time you come home, I can tell those boys are bringing you out of your shell, you know. They’re good for you.”

Virgil shrugs. “I guess,” he says.

“You _know,_ ” she prods, and Virgil allows himself to smile, just a little.

“Guess I do,” he says, and she swats him affectionately with a dish towel.

“This should go on the menu,” Virgil adds, tapping the glass with his pinky. “S’good. Did you make ice cream outta this, or crumble up the candies somehow?”

Oh God, it’s happening. His accent’s getting increasingly southern-sounding, the way it always does whenever he spends a lot of time with Cora.

“Ice cream,” Cora says, tucking her towel back into her apron. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t act cute with me, Virgil Owens, you’re getting _shy,”_ she says teasingly. “Bashful, even.”

Virgil grumbles into his shake, “You’re my great-aunt, you’re not supposed to mock me.”

“That’s what family’s for, hon,” Cora says.

Virgil wrinkles his nose at her, and she smiles at him, ruffling his hair before she tugs out a notepad.

“Okay,” she says. “So, for Christmas dinner, I was thinking…”

* * *

When Virgil tows in his duffle bag, intent on going straight to his room and going to bed, he does not at all expect to see two of his roommates making out on the couch.

Virgil yelps “Holy SHIT,” and swiftly pivots around, cheeks burning, as he hears scrambling behind him.

“I—sorry,” Virgil says, “I didn’t—I— _wait,”_ he says, and it clicks, and he pivots back around to narrow his eyes suspiciously at Logan, looking conspicuously ruffled, who’s adjusting his glasses back on his nose. “Since _when?”_

“It’s _recent,_ George Gloomy!” Roman squawks, buttoning the top few buttons that had come undone. “Would it kill you to _knock?!_ ”

“I didn’t realize I had to knock on my _own apartment door!”_ Virgil nearly yells, feeling his cheeks burn redder and redder. “You’re in a common area!”

“You—you said you were going to be home tomorrow,” Logan says. “I assure you if we’d known, we wouldn’t have—”

“Well,” Roman says, with a thoughtful tilt of his head, and Virgil takes a moment to bury his face in his hands, take a deep breath, and emerge.

“Okay,” Virgil says, and gestures vaguely at them. “When—how—did _this…?”_

Roman and Logan exchange a glance, and Logan says, awkwardly, “Um. Today?”

It takes a few seconds to click. “Today,” Virgil repeats.

“We started arguing about jelly flavors,” Roman says sheepishly.

“And it turned into… desecrating our couch?”

“We were arguing about other things too,” Logan says, shooting Roman an irritated-fond kind of look, and oh, wow, how had Virgil never noticed the increasing amounts of fondness in that look?

“It’s been building for a while,” Roman says, smiling sideways at Logan, “And, um. It’s just—we’re trying to see how it goes, for now.”

“We don’t want things to become,” Logan says, and fiddles with his tie. “Strange.”

Virgil nods, slowly, and says, “No more making out in common rooms.”

“Absolutely not,” Logan agrees in a rush. “We won’t.”

“Well—”

“We _won’t,”_ Logan says, giving Roman another look, this one more irritated.

“Okay,” Virgil says, and nods. “I’m gonna. You two are gonna be the ones to tell Patton, and everything, but, um. I’m gonna… unpack. If you two continue doing… that… please go to Roman’s room. At least for tonight.”

Virgil goes immediately to his room and tries to quash the weird squirming his intestines seem to be doing.

The next morning, when Patton’s finally back, Logan calls them awkwardly into the kitchen for an _apartment meeting._

Logan takes a breath, before he tilts up his chin. “Roman and I will not be joining you for dinner this evening.”

“Okay,” Patton says, slow, glancing at Virgil, who doesn’t glance back.

Logan takes another breath, and continues bluntly, “Because we’re going on our first date. Roman and I are… dating. Now.”

“Oh,” Patton says, and his eyes get as round as quarters. “Oh, _wow._ How long has this…?”

“Not long,” Roman says hastily. “Just yesterday. Virgil, ah. Virgil kind of walked in on us kissing in the living room.”

“Please don’t do it again,” Virgil says, as if he hasn’t replayed the moments before they sprung apart in his mind fifteen hundred times.

“Of course,” Logan says, equally as hasty as Virgil. “But. Ah. We figured we should… make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

“Wow,” Patton says again, and asks, “So, like. Is this serious?”

It’s a fair question. Roman goes through flings like frat boys go through vodka, and for as long as Virgil’s known him, Logan’s never breathed a word of a single romantic outing.

Logan and Roman exchange a glance, blush, and break their gaze.

“We’d like it to be, yeah,” Roman says, in a quiet, shy voice.

 _What happened?_ Virgil wonders, and he absolutely _aches_ to Look deeper, to find out what the catalyst was to swap bickering to kissing, what made them finally absorb how well they could work together. But he can’t—they’re his friends, and it’d be an invasion of their privacy.

Plus, the weird wiggling in his stomach starts up again double time when he considers Looking for that.

Patton smiles, wide and sharp, and _wrong._

“Then I’m very happy for you two,” he says decisively, and stands up, pushing away from the table. “What are you two lovebirds doing on your _date_?”

Apparently they’re going to be pretty tame—dinner and a movie, and it ends up that Patton is in Roman’s room, and Virgil ends up in Logan’s, and he gets to ask the question he’s wanted to ask.

“So, how the _hell_ did that happen?”

Logan’s holding up one of his numerous button-downs against his chest, and he glances at Virgil, before he looks back to the mirror.

“I,” Logan begins, and there’s a tinge of pink on his cheeks. Logan’s blushed more in the past day than he has in a year. “Well, we were—we were arguing about jelly flavors, you know, whichever one we’d get on our next grocery run. And—well—” he pauses, and says, “Do you remember, when Roman and I were bickering that one time, and you and Patton were on the couch, and he went out to show off that he could do a back handspring? And you and Patton mentioned something about us both fighting to reach a common goal, and that we made a good team?”

“That was a _fun_ day,” Virgil says, sarcasm thick in his voice.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Logan says pointedly, “I—I don’t know. It was a combination of things, I suppose. We complement each other, I’ve grown to trust him, we—we—“ he flushes, and adds, with only some of his usual dignity, “Roman is conventionally attractive, which helps, and—”

Virgil wrinkles his nose and waves a hand. “I’ve heard enough.”

Logan getting ready for a date, it turns out, is hilarious. Well. It _would_ be hilarious, if Virgil can stop feeling the weird squirming in his stomach, or if Logan wasn’t so genuinely nervous and all… _butterflies in the stomach, puppy love_ about it. It’s a state that’s just unnatural to Logan’s state of being.

What is _with_ Virgil, right now? It’s probably because of the curse, or something. That’s probably it. Love’s antithetical to a Fae.

Patton and Virgil see Roman and Logan to the door and wave them off. As soon as they’re gone, the grin drops off of Patton’s face with a near-dangerous level of force.

Virgil hesitates before he carefully pokes Patton in the shoulder.

“Wanna order pizza and watch Steven Universe, or something?”

Patton wraps an arm around Virgil’s shoulders, and the sudden brush of Patton right now— _sad_ —washes over Virgil like an unexpected wave, sinking him so he can barely breathe.

“I love Steven Universe,” Patton says.

They end up ordering a slightly ridiculous amount of food, all-out—mozzarella sticks, and greasy pepperoni pizza with cheese-stuffed crust, and brownies. They go back to the start of Steven Universe, and Virgil takes a breath.

It’s like Patton’s first reading—his need for touch right now is like an air horn in Virgil’s ear.

Virgil pauses, before he carefully rests an arm over the back of the couch.

“You okay?” Virgil mutters, gruff, and Patton lets out a wet laugh, before leaning on Virgil’s shoulder.

“Memories,” he snuffles into Virgil’s shoulder, and Virgil squeezes his shoulder, before he takes a breath.

“It feels… weird,” Virgil says hesitantly. “Right? Like, it’s not just me.”

“No,” Patton says, soft. “No, it’s not just you. I—” He swallows, and says lamely, “Yeah.”

Virgil tries his hardest not to cringe at himself as he says, “Do you want to, like. Talk about it?”

Patton pauses, and he squirms, and he looks at Virgil with a nearly defiant look in his eye.

“I like ‘em.”

“Who?” Virgil says, before it clicks. “ _Them._ Oh. _Oh.”_

He tries to calculate that in his mind, and what comes out of his mouth next is, “You can do that?”

Patton flops back against the couch. “They wouldn’t,” he says.

“Patton,” Virgil says. “Are you kidding? They—I mean, talk with them about it, but—”

“What if they think it’s weird?”

“Then you and Logan swap rooms, and you can just interact with me,” Virgil says determinedly. “But I mean—it’s _Logan_ and _Roman._ And you’re… you. Anyone’d be lucky to have you. Okay?”

Patton hesitates, before he rests his head on Virgil’s shoulder again.

“Virge?”

“Mhm.”

“People’d be lucky to have you too, you know?”

Virgil starts, and says, “No. Oh, no, I’m not—no. No dating in the cards for me. I can’t—I’m not doing that.”

Patton blinks at him. “Is it okay if I ask why?”

“Just,” Virgil says. “ _No_. I’m not—I’m not dating anyone. Not now, not ever. Let’s watch Steven Universe some more, okay?”

Patton pauses, surveys her, before relaxing back against Virgil’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Virgil stirs a bit on the couch with the murmuring of quiet voices.

“—gil told me I should probably tell you two, so. Now you know.”

A long pause. Virgil stays still, and continues breathing deeply.

“You don’t have to—I mean—” Patton says, hastily. “I just—I thought you guys—I don’t wanna pressure you or anything, I just—” Patton groans. “I’m going to go run away now, I—”

There’s a sudden silence, and Virgil opens his eyes a slit, in time to see Logan pressing his lips against Patton’s.

“Oh,” Patton squeaks, soft.

“Yeah, _oh,”_ Roman says in amusement. “Let’s go to my room to talk about it, I don’t wanna wake Virgil up.”

“Okay,” Patton says. He sounds dazed, like it’s some kind of daydream. “I’m—you’re okay with this too, Roman?”

“Get over here, pretty Patton,” Roman says, and Virgil keeps his eyes shut for this part. The squirming’s kicked up tenfold.

When he hears Roman’s door shut, Virgil gets up from the couch, curls up in his bed, and tries and fails to go to sleep.

* * *

When Virgil is nineteen years old, he realizes he’s going to kill his three best friends in the world. And that his twelve-year-old spell had worked, against all odds.

Faes fall fast and hard. Intellectually, Virgil knows this. It could be part of the curse, part of the magic that’s hopelessly intertwined with Fae DNA, it could just be a part of simply finding someone who didn’t ostracize them for their family history.

It’s three am, and none of them had been able to sleep, and all of them are sleep deprived and stupid and too young when Virgil realizes he’d twisted the other three into being, and he’d be the one to doom them all.

Roman was twisting Patton around the kitchen floor in a grandiose waltz to stupid middle school pop music as Patton slipped on socked feet and Logan sat perched on the counter, sipping coffee from his periodic table mug and keeping a close eye on the toaster because of Logan’s particular misfortune with cooking, and Virgil was about to be a murderer.

The first stupid, stupid thought in his head was, _if that spell worked, which of them got the good kisser part?_

The second thought in his head was that, rather distantly he was starting to notice that he was panicking. None of them seemed to notice how hard Virgil’s world had just flipped its axis, how quickly his stomach bottomed out and how the panic was starting to wrap around his ribs, choking him. Which was probably good.

He doesn’t know how he gets through it. He doesn’t know how he sips his cocoa and eats his buttered toast and doesn’t tip them off that something is terribly horribly wrong, because he’s such an _idiot_ to have done that, _Christ._

His mouth joins in with the chitchat as some kind of plan whirls around in his brain. Because what’s he gonna do, _tell them?!_ That’d go over _great,_ and probably get him sent straight to the psychology offices. Not even mentioning the fact that loving them would _kill them,_ not even mentioning that, what kind of people would ever _be_ with him like that? Why would Roman and Patton and Logan, exploring their new relationship together, fold in Virgil? Why would Roman? Why would Logan? Why would Patton, who deserves everything good and kind and _soft_ in the world, get involved with someone like _Virgil?_ Friends, fine, they’re all friends with other people. But—dating? No. No way. Virgil can’t do that to them—not even including the fact that _Virgil loving them would kill them._

Telling them isn’t an option, then, not at all. Nothing. Nothing about his family history, nothing about the curse, and _nothing about Virgil loving them._

So, what? Ignore it? That wouldn’t help either. Now Virgil knows, he’s going to obsess over it, he’s going to stare at them and moon over them and _pine after them,_ which would be digging their graves deeper and deeper with every sappy thought and kind thing Virgil would do for them. He can’t just ignore it and exist with them there, he can’t ignore _this._

Jesus Christ, Virgil is an _idiot._ How did he not see any of this before? It’s not like he fell in love overnight. When did this start? The birthday celebration? Settling in the routine of living together? Move-in day? Or did it go back even further, from the moment that they reached their hands out to him in forgiveness and friendship? Did he fall in love the instant they showed him some kind of kindness?

Or had he, twelve years ago, doomed himself to falling in love with them as soon as he declared the spell to be complete? Had he forced them into being? Were they even _real_?

Virgil shakes his head, hard, to dislodge that certain thought.

“Virgil?” Patton asks, blinking at him. “You okay, buddy?”

“I,” Virgil begins, and gulps. “I—I think I’m gonna go to bed, actually. This has been working on me.”

“Well, if it works on someone, it may as well work on you,” Roman declares, and waves a hand at him. “Good night, _Good Night Gloom_ , sleep well.”

“Let us know if the sound bothers you,” Logan adds.

“Right,” Virgil says. “Night.”

Virgil turns tail to go to his room, sits on his bed, and feels his eyes focus on the duffle bag tucked haphazardly into his closet.

Oh.

Oh, of course.


	5. Chapter 5

“Bit dismal, isn’t it?” Roman asks pointedly, as Logan’s car trundles past the pitiful excuse for a welcoming sign.

“Lots of parking, though,” Logan says dryly, gesturing into the nearest lot that, aside from about three cars scattered throughout, had their pick of spots.

“This is where Virgil grew up,” Patton says, a tone of quiet disapproval in his voice. “Where he _lives._ ”

“I’m starting to see why he was so emo when we first met him,” Roman says in an undertone. “If I lived here I’d be miserable too.”

A pause, as they examined their surroundings, and Roman looks at the map again.

“So,” Roman says. “Do we start at the grocery store, or the tiny excuse of a library, or the gas station? Or whatever number of closed-up shops there are? Or, oh, look, a bed and breakfast—”

“It’s a Sunday in a small town, stands to reason things are closed,” Logan says, tapping lightly at the dashboard. “Could use a bit more gas. Besides, they might have instructions. Maps. Directions. They might even know where he lives, it’s a small enough town—everyone must know everyone here—”

“Gas station it is,” Patton agrees, shifting in his seat. “I could use a good stretch. I hope they’ve got snacks.”

“—then I suppose we’ll check into the bed and breakfast. I have a suspicion that if Virgil ignored all of our calls and texts, he might not be quite so open to seeing us all in person. It may take a while.”

“We’ll just curl up on his doorstep and refuse to leave,” Roman suggests, and Logan lets out a slight huff that might have been hiding a laugh, pulling in to the gas station and parking by one of the two pumps, setting it to fill up before going inside.

A man, their age, or perhaps a year or two older, stared at them, smiling a kind of aggrieved customer-service smile.

“Sorry,” He says, not sounding particularly sorry as he stands from where he’d been sitting and scrolling on his phone. “Not often we get out of towners. Sunday’s normally a slow day—”

“It’s no trouble,” Logan says, and then glances around the small excuse for a gas station. Fridges line two of the walls, and there’s about three aisles worth of snacks, which Roman and Patton are already perusing, and then back at the counter, where the man (whose nametag read _JIMMY KAVANAGH_ in cursive white stitching) gawks at them openly. “If I could pay in here—”

“Yeah, sure,” Apparently-Jimmy says, waving a hand and squinting out to double-check the pump number.

“What’re you doing in Ligerion?” he asks, as he’s punching in the information. “I think the last visitors we had was over a year ago, now.”

Logan tries his hardest not to wince at the use of a singular verb with a plural subject, and busies himself with glancing through yellowed, old maps of the town. “We’re visiting a friend of ours.”

“Oh, yeah? Bet I know ‘im.” He says to Logan, who laughs politely, well-versed in small-talk and all of its intricacies, even if he wasn’t particularly genuine about it.

“Place like this, I suppose you have to,” Logan agrees, setting what looks like the most in-depth map on the counter. “I’m paying for all their snacks, too, plus this—anyways, we’re visiting Virgil. Virgil Fae.”

It’s like saying his name flips a switch. The color practically drains out of his face, and gone is the look, the conspiratorial one that seems like he wants to be first to know the business for the visitors. Now, he looks like he’s seen a ghost—like Virgil’s name alone shook him to his core. Apparently-Jimmy looks around the station, scandalized, before bending his head towards Logan.

“All right, look,” he says to Logan in an undertone, an edge of a laugh in his tone. “I get that you’re, like, city boys, y’all’re new around here. But don’t go _shoutin’ it out_ —guess if you’re seeing a Fae you haven’t got much sense, though,” he adds, and Logan stiffens.

“Beg your pardon?”

His voice is louder than expected, and he can practically feel Roman and Patton’s questioning gazes on his back. The soft padding of Roman and Patton’s feet as they approach the counter, silently putting their things on the counter. Patton’s fingers brush soft, subtle, down the steel of his spine.

Apparently-Jimmy sighs, and looks at them. “Look, bit of free advice?” He says, as he’s starting to ring up the snacks.

“Faes aren’t friends. They’ll do a good job convincing you of it, sure, but that’s the way they are. They’re good at it. That’s how they _get_ you. You’re not from here, I get it. But _I_ am. People in this town… they’ve seen people like you get all wrapped up in the Faes and what happens to them. You’ll think they’re your people, they’re parts of the town, that they’re your _friends_. They are _not._ ”

Logan did not particularly _care_ what this person thought. He didn’t know _Virgil._ He didn’t know the quiet, earnest Virgil, the one who made his own garden in their land-locked, green-bereft apartment. The one who grew from snarling and grouchy to someone who _tried_ , all the time, learning how to fit and change and be with people who _cared_ about him.

Because if Virgil had lived his life—in a dark, dismal, _small_ place like this, with people like this who suspected his every motive—Logan could understand why he had been so shut off to them, before.

Because of people like this.

Logan draws himself up to his full height, and feels his best well-bred sneer cross his face, disdainful. He puts down enough cash for the snacks, their gas, the map with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

“For your information,” and his tone was acerbic and cold, “which I’m not entirely sure will sink into your thick head, Virgil is one of the best men I’ve ever met. And we don’t particularly care about whatever horrid, _false_ warnings you want to give to us.”

“Your funeral,” Jimmy mutters as they finally head for the door, and Patton has to grab Logan’s arm and practically shove him outside, lest he double back and—what? Punch him? He wouldn’t punch someone.

Would he?

He needs to calm down. He needs to keep a level head.

Roman, meanwhile, has stopped in his tracks.

“We’re idiots,” Roman says, and swivels to look at them. “We… we’re _idiots._ ”

“Why d’you say that,” Patton prompts, and Roman gestures down the main road.

“You guys. _Cora._ ”

They all freeze. Cora. Virgil’s great-aunt.

_Who owns the only restaurant in town._

“We _are_ idiots,” Logan breathes.

Patton checks his watch, and says, “Early dinner, then?”

They scramble for the car.

It turns out to be barely a minute’s drive, and Logan pulls into the first available spot, before they all head straight for the diner door.

The diner’s small, and neat. It’s kind of… cute, really, with a soda counter and booths, everything done in shades of red or white. Everyone in the diner is staring at them, though, and they swiftly slide into a booth.

“What is with this town,” Roman says in an undertone, stealing a glance towards an old man, who’s squinting at them suspiciously.

“It’s not exactly a hot spot for tourists,” Logan says dryly, and reaches for the menus—pieces of paper put into a plastic holder, as if the menu’s swapped around often, all tucked behind a condiments container.

Patton takes the menu, and observes it, before he pauses, stricken.

“What?” Roman asks.

“I—nothing,” Patton says. “Just—butterscotch milkshake.”

The scattering of butterscotch candies in the care packages that arrived twice a month, the ones Virgil claimed and shoved in his backpack and sucked on when he was studying.

“Well,” Logan says, “at least we know we’re in the right place.”

“Yeah,” Roman says, with a nod to the _Auntie Cora’s_ printed on the window, “there were no other hints, at all.”

“Have you just decided to pick up the snark in Virgil’s absence, then?” Logan asks Roman, and Roman rolls his eyes at him.

“Hey there,” the woman starts, looking at her notepad, and then looks out with a smile. “What can I get…?”

She trails off, staring at Patton, who’s staring back.

“You’re… that nice boy,” the woman who must be Cora says, tucking her pen behind her ear, invisible in her toss of white curls. “Patton, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Patton says softly. “And this is Logan, and this is Roman. Thank you for your recipes, I know Virgil—” he falters, and continues, strangled, “I know Virgil really loves them.”

She clears her throat, tries for a smile, and fishes her pen back out. “Can I get you boys started with a drink?”

“We were wondering—” Logan begins, leaning forwards, but Patton’s hand closes around his wrist.

“We’d love to,” Patton says. “I’ll start with a butterscotch milkshake. Rome, Lo?” He says, glancing at them.

Roman meets eyes with Logan, shrugs, and says, “I’ll just get a water, thanks.”

“Water as well,” Logan says, and Patton rubs his thumb over Logan’s hand as Cora notes it down.

“Be right out with those, fellas,” she says, and goes back behind the counter, presumably to the kitchen.

“People were staring,” Patton says, and nods his head to the side, where a child is openly gawking and pointing at them. “Still are. If the way our friend at the gas station acted is any indication…”

“Virgil isn’t popular,” Logan says with a sigh. “Well spotted. I don’t know why I’m so off today.”

“Yes, you do,” Roman murmurs, and puts his head on his arms, letting out a gusting sigh. “Anx—I mean, when Virgil wrote to me back then—I thought he was exaggerating.”

As the meal goes on, and they each try to the butterscotch milkshake, which makes Logan think about Virgil even more, the people turn more towards their own meals and ignore them. The food is hearty and filling and warm; Logan thinks that Virgil’s constant praise of Cora is well-earned.

As they wind down, Cora brings over three plates balanced on one arm, dishes them out, and slides in the booth next to Roman, who hastily scoots aside so there’s room.

She’s brought them jam tarts, and a brownie for Patton. They all murmur their thanks.

Cora nods, gestures for them to dig in with a thin, strained smile, and says quietly, “You know, Virgil was named after my late husband.”

Logan isn’t quite sure what to say—he never is, in these kinds of situations.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Patton says somberly, and Cora gives him the same wan smile.

“It happened years ago,” she says. “Before you were born. We had a good life together—started this diner, moved to Loch Ligerion. Raised Virgil’s mother as our own, after his sister and her husband died. We knew, of course. When she came home from kindergarten all atwitter about the Fae boy in her class. We knew what it meant.”

The other three exchange glances, and Logan says politely, “I don’t think we do.”

Cora smiles, pats Logan on the hand. “Oh, I know,” she says. “He wouldn’t have told you about that. Any of it. Got too much flack about it here, poor thing, I think that’s part of why he went off to school. Didn’t phrase it to us quite like that, but Dee and I knew.”

It takes a while for the name to click, but Roman gets it first. “Dee’s… Virgil’s uncle?”

“Mhm,” Cora says. “He didn’t want Virgil to go at all, really, in his mind the fact that Virgil’s father ever left town is what caused him and Violet to pass away so suddenly, before—” She cuts herself off.

“Before?” Roman prompts, and Cora laughs a little awkwardly.

“It’s… traditional, for there to be two Fae children. Occasionally more, but most commonly two. Virgil’s the first only Fae child in two hundred years.”

Patton lets out a low whistle. “Wow.”

“It’s… unusual, certainly,” Logan says, “but—”

“There are things at play here that you don’t understand,” Cora says kindly.

“Okay,” Logan says. “Would you tell us about those things?”

“It’s not my place.”

“No, but it could be Virgil’s,” Logan says. “Could you—could you just let us know how we could see him?”

She’s visibly hesitating, and Roman adds hastily, “ _Just_ to see him. Just… we want to make sure he’s okay. We didn’t even know he’d left, we thought something awful happened—"

Their desserts lay forgotten, and Cora glances nervously over her shoulder, before looking back to them.

“You seem like very nice boys,” she says. “Every time Virgil came home, he smiled more and more, and I know it was because of you three.”

They all brighten, a little, but she holds up a hand.

“But I saw his father smile more and more because of my Violet, too,” Cora says. “Boys, I’m sorry, but… I’ll let him know that you’re in town, and that you want to see him. But I’m not going to be part of what leads you to it. He’ll be the one who makes the choice. I think the fact that he left town should tell you what he’s going to choose.” She nods to them, says even softer, “Eat your sweets,” and slides out of the booth, going straight for the kitchen.

“Well,” Patton says quietly, dipping his spoon into the melty brownie, “that’s… something, at least.”

“Something confusing,” Logan says. “I don’t know why she’s acting like us seeing Virgil again would be the end of the world.”

They eat their desserts slowly, dawdling over the last of their meal.

Almost theatrically, the door dings open, and a hush falls over the diner. Logan blinks at Roman, and they look to the door.

A man stands there, and Logan nearly chokes on his last bite of tart.

He looks like an older Virgil.

Except for the part that he’s scowling at the majority of the diner, wearing a cape and a bowler hat, and has unfortunately selected yellow as an accent color, rather than Virgil’s usual purple.

“That’s Virgil’s Uncle,” Roman says in an undertone. “Has to be, right?”

“Has to be,” Logan agrees, equally quiet, and they watch as Cora emerges from the kitchen with a brown paper bag, as the Uncle takes it and leans over the counter to chat with her, the way her eyes stray towards their table, how his grip tightens on the takeout bag.

And he turns around, facing them full on, and by Patton’s poorly-bitten off gasp, the other differences between himself and Virgil are made immediately apparent.

He practically glides over to their table, and unlike Cora, doesn’t slide in to sit next to Roman—he hovers over them, drawing himself up to his full height, glowering at them all with his yellow, snakey eye, a smirk straining the scar tissue on his cheek, the scales catching the fluroescent light.

“You must be the boys I’ve heard all about,” he says, voice quiet and precise and drawling in a way that Virgil, even at his meanest, could never quite manage.

“The boys who’d like to see him,” Patton says politely, and his smile turns even nastier.

“I’m afraid Virgil isn’t at home.”

“Tell us where he is, and we’ll get right out of your way,” Roman says, tilting his chin up proudly.

“I wouldn’t know what to tell you,” Uncle says. “Virgil leaving town, I’m sure it has _nothing_ to do with you three.” He smiles at them, nods, and says, “Goodbye, boys.”

He sweeps out the same way he came, and Logan can see the other diners relax, as if all of them had been holding their breath.

Logan’s usually disinclined towards such metaphoric statements, but it’s undeniable, the sudden release of tension as Virgil’s Uncle leaves.

“Charmer,” Roman remarks quietly to them, and Logan pauses, touching his own cheek.

“Skin condition, maybe,” Logan murmurs. “Not sure which. And the eye… contact, maybe?”

“He looks a lot like Virgil,” Patton says. “Aside from, you know. The weird snakey stuff.”

At last, they pay, and tip, and venture to walk the main road of the town; it’s really not all that much to look at. The grocery store, a tiny library, Cora’s diner, the gas station, a couple other little, tiny shops that probably wouldn’t do them any good.

“Bed and breakfast, do you think?” Roman asks as the sun begins to set, and Patton, very suddenly, gasps.

“Cat,” he says, and moves to approach it. The cat looks to them, meows at them loudly, and trots over, purring noisily.

As the cat approaches, Logan can tell more—it’s an entirely black cat, the only bits of color being its large amber eyes and the twining of flowers around its neck. Logan’s no Virgil, but he can pick out anemones, a single daffodil, and purple hyacinths. Some he doesn’t know—Virgil would, he always did. Does.

 _Virgil,_ Logan thinks, and in that moment misses him so terribly he can barely take in his next breath.

And there, a little scroll of paper around her neck, as she lays on her back, showing her belly and tipping her head back, as if to ensure that they’ll see it. Patton takes it, hands trembling.

“Thank you,” he tells her, and the cat blinks slowly at them with their amber eyes, and sits back on her haunches, before licking at her paw and starting to clean her face.

“What does it say?” Roman asks, hoarse, and Patton fumblingly unscrolls the tiny piece of paper.

 _you need to leave,_ it says in Virgil’s spiky handwriting, and, _I’m sorry._

“That’s it?” Logan says, taking the paper and turning it over. Nothing.

The cat meows, butts into Patton’s leg with her head, and sits back to scratch at the flowers with her hind paw, before giving him a look. Logan knows that Virgil’s good with cats, but he hadn’t known it was possible to train them _this_ well.

“Oh,” Patton says, and carefully pulls the flower collar off of her neck. “Here you go.”

She meows at them, dips her head as if nodding at them in acknowledgment, and stalks away.

There’s a pause.

“Do you think she’s going back to Virgil?” Roman asks.

“We should follow her,” Patton says immediately, slipping the flowers onto his wrist, and without waiting for a response, following the cat towards the woods, Roman hot on his heels.

Logan sighs in exasperation before he follows his two boyfriends, who are following a cat, into unfamiliar woods. There are so many ways this could go wrong.

The cat often looks back at them, too, as if to say _could you keep up?!_ and Logan has to take a second to remind himself that cats are not actually capable of such communication. The woods are dark and smell overwhelmingly of dead leaves and pine; there does, at least, seem to be some kind of path they’re following. Logan wonders how often Virgil walks it, when the last time he walked it was. Had he been scared of something? What had made him uproot himself from his life, a life he’d given no prior signs of showing malcontent with, a life that had been… good?

They break through the trees, and Roman whispers, “Holy _shit.”_ Patton doesn’t even lecture him for language; the three of them are too busy staring.

Virgil’s house—manor?—looks straight out of a storybook. It’s black, dark woods, iron, green glass Logan can only barely see the suggestion of light through—the garden’s extensive, and the bluestone path leading to the back door seems to glimmer in the moonlight. There’s towers and spires arching up into the moonlight, and the cat keeps moving, seemingly ignoring them, and moves to the backdoor, yowling and meowing.

“Down,” Logan says, once his brain starts to work, “Get down, behind the bush—”

Logan shoves them, and they crouch behind the bush in time to see the door open, light spilling onto the lawn, Virgil’s Uncle backlit by the glow of the… kitchen, maybe? He says something undiscernable and gestures for the cat to come in, and she does. He looks out into the yard, squinting, before closing the massive door with a bang.

“That is,” Roman says, “a _ridiculous_ house. You know, I’m starting to get Virgil more now. Dressing in all black all the time just makes _sense_ when you live somewhere like that.”

“D’you think that his Uncle lied?” Patton says, soft. “And that he’s really home?”

Logan and Roman are both nodding before he even finishes the sentence.

“I don’t think we can trust that man at all,” Logan says darkly.

“Whenever Virgil mentions him, it always seems… weird,” Roman agrees. “Back when we were penpals, I remember just kind of feeling off about Virgil’s descriptions of him.”

“He’s clearly not going to let us in to see him,” Logan says with a sigh, and turns to his left. “Patton, what do you…?”

He isn’t there. Roman hits him on the arm, and hisses “Patton!” loudly.

Because Patton’s striding up the bluestone path, straight to the door.

* * *

Patton takes a breath to steel himself before knocking on the door, and glances over his shoulder to see Logan yanking Roman back to the relative safety of the bush and turns back in time for the door to open.

“Well,” Virgil’s Uncle says. “If it isn’t… what’s your name.”

“Patton,” he says, and digs in his pocket, before unearthing the cat tarot cards that Virgil had left behind, holding them up for his inspection. “Virgil’s usually the one who does this for me. I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a reading.”

Virgil’s Uncle stares at the cards, and Patton swears he can see something flicker in his eyes before he smiles. He steps aside, and Patton walks into the house.

The décor’s all dark wood and greenery strung haphazardly through the room, a bit like how Virgil keeps his room at the apartment. Patton sits at the kitchen table, and Virgil’s Uncle clatters about in the kitchen.

“Tea,” he says. Patton gets the feeling it isn’t a question.

“Mint, if you have it,” Patton says, sitting down and glancing into the doorway that leads to the rest of the house, the stairs—Virgil’s room must be somewhere up those stairs. Patton, for a fleeting moment, wonders what would happen if he ran up the stairs while Virgil’s Uncle’s back is turned—but a teacup’s set before him before he can act on it.

“Which spread?”

Patton steels himself, and says, “The true love spread.” His voice is much steadier than he thought it’d be.

Virgil’s Uncle nods, as if it hasn’t affected him, and says simply, “Drink your tea,” as he begins to shuffle the deck.

He knows how this goes—cuts the deck without Virgil’s Uncle prompting him at all. It’s almost familiar, a warm drink, a tarot reading—but the surroundings are entirely unfamiliar. Virgil’s Uncle instead of Virgil, Loch Ligerion instead of the Busy Bean, mint tea instead of hot chocolate.

First and second, under them third, fourth, and fifth, sixth in a row alone at the bottom. You, your partner, what brings you together, what keeps you apart, what needs work, and outcome.

But then Virgil’s Uncle sits back and stares. “Tea,” he says, and sips at his own. Patton finishes it in three scalding gulps and sets down the teacup. Virgil’s Uncle takes it and tilts it, squinting, before looking at Patton, level-eyed.

“I must have calculated it perfectly,” Virgil’s Uncle muses, and Patton frowns at him. The room’s getting darker. Why is the room getting darker?

“I—what?” Patton asks. His tongue feels numb.

“You’ll have a bit of a headache in the morning,” Virgil’s Uncle says, and Patton’s balance faults, as he falls off the chair and to the ground. He tries to sit up.

“What did you do to me,” Patton gasps, head spinning, and tries to sit up again.

He can hear thunder—is it thunder? It sounds like thunder, and then someone’s hand on his face, and he forces his eyes open.

“Vurge-uhhl?” Patton forces out around his numb tongue.

“Jesus Christ,” Virgil says, like his voice is coming from the top of a well, “what did you _do_ to him?”

“Virgil,” Patton tries to say again, blinking, fixating on Virgil’s eyes. His eyes are so pretty. Such an unusual shade of brown—like there’s bits of gold, like amber, like—

And Patton’s sinking, sinking down into the water.

 

“…hospital, or _something,_ he’s been out for hours—”

“—and where do you propose we take him? The nearest medical help is a vet, which doesn’t seem—”

Patton groans and the voices stop and pick up again.

“Patton?” The first voice says, and that’s definitely Roman, and Patton tries to turn his face towards him, except that it feels like a herculean effort.

A hand on his cheek, a thumb over his cheekbone. “Patton, can you hear us?”

“Lo’an,” Patton manages, and adds, “Ro—”

“Hey there, sleepyface,” Roman says, soft and soothing, and a hand strokes through his hair. “Can you open those pretty green eyes for us, honey?”

With herculean effort, Patton forces his eyes open, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

He sees his boyfriends’ faces above him, crowded together, and he sees the looks of relief blossom across their faces.

“Hey there,” Roman says, and runs a hand through his hair again.

“Do you remember what happened?” Logan asks.

Patton blinks as the memories come back, bubbling sluggishly to the surface of his brain, and he tries to sit up in bed.

“I saw him,” Patton says, and both Logan and Roman push him back onto the pillows. “I saw Virgil, he’s at the house, he was—”

Patton’s cut off by a noisy yowl. They all blink and look to the window.

The black cat from before is scratching at the window, and, to put it bluntly, screaming at them.

“Let her in,” Patton says.

“Patton, your medicine—”

“She might have something from Virgil,” Patton says, and Logan sighs, nudging Roman to go to the window, before going to Patton’s bag and digging out his medicine as Patton pushes himself up onto his elbows.

When Roman opens the window, the cat launches herself at Patton, landing on her chest, and meowing in his face, making Patton thump back against the pillows.

She’s kneading his chest and meowing the cat equivalent of some kind of lecture—it’s a lot of angry-sounding _mrorororwwww!!!! Mrrrrow!_ and occasional poking of claws as she kneads against his chest.

“I—” Patton says, and sneezes into her fur, causing her to make a disgusted hiss and leap a little further down the bed.

Just a little, though. Patton accepts his glasses and allergy medicine from Logan, as Roman coos at the cat, who gives him a Look.

“She has one,” Roman says, and takes the scroll, unrolling it, before frowning.

“What?” Patton asks, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “What does it say?”

“I—I don’t understand,” Roman says, and reads off, “The empress, the hanged man, two of cups, the devil, reversed two of swords, the lovers.” Roman exchanges a confused look with Logan, but Patton softens.

“It’s Virgil,” Patton says, soft. “He read it, he—give that to me, and my phone,” he says, and adds hastily, “Please.”

He’s awful at reading this—Virgil’s the one who knows how to read it. But—

Patton begins googling some kind of tarot card reading site, and Logan says, “Patton, what does it mean?”

“They’re tarot cards,” Patton says unthinkingly, before he flushes and clears his throat. “Um. I mean—”

He tries to think of another excuse, can’t, and sighs.

“Yeah, they’re tarot cards,” he says. “He asked me not to tell you, because he thought you guys wouldn’t believe him, but—you know those fliers around campus advertising for tarot readings?”

Logan’s eyebrows are lost somewhere in his hairline.

“That… was Virgil?” Roman says slowly.

Patton shrugs. “It’s how we met,” he says. “And I asked his Uncle to give me a reading, before he—I think he put something in my tea, but. Virgil ended up doing the reading, and these are the cards. Or at least I think so. So.”

The website loads, and Patton starts to cross-check meanings.

“Virgil,” Logan says slowly. “Was the one advertising his. Tarot services.”

“He’s pretty accurate about them, too,” Patton says.

“It’s all power of suggestion,” Logan begins, and the cat meows at him irritably, before curling up on Patton’s stomach.

He looks up each card. Empress, which is apparently him, represents _a nurturing, caring, and supportive person with those around them_ , which certainly seems nice. But apparently when in a spread with the devil card, it could suggest that he’s causing damage to someone without knowing it, which is much less nice.

Hanged man, Virgil, as he’s another person, potentially represents _someone who is not who they appear to be, and could very well cause a big disruption in your life,_ which is… a little unnerving, especially when he sees an illustration of the hanged man.

Then the two of cups, what brings them together, apparently means _potential for a wonderful relationship in front of your eyes,_ and _for an attached lover, the two of cups means something big will be happening in your relationship in a positive way_. He can really only hope so.

The devil, what keeps them apart, _serves as a warning,_ and _can point to lying or hidden motives,_ and could show _someone whose association with the wrong crowd will ultimately be your undoing_.

And the reversed two of swords, what they’re meant to work on, could show _a reminder that you have all the tools necessary to make the best choices you can for yourself,_ and _you can be sure you are making the right decisions,_ which is reassuring.

And the outcome—the lovers—Patton doesn’t think he has to look, but he does anyway. _A resounding “yes!” to having a happy and fulfilling love life,_ but at the same time, since the devil’s in the spread too, it could mean _that you and your romantic partner are not going to work out regardless of how hard each of you work on the relationship._ Patton sets his jaw, but he can only focus on one thing.

He sends a text to Virgil, the latest in a long line of unanswered ones, _I know you, okay? Any disruption you bring I’d love_ and sends it before setting down his phone at last.

“So,” Logan says, sarcastic, “what do the _cards_ tell you?”

Patton disregards the sarcasm. “That Virgil probably isn’t what he appears,” he says. “That there’s going to be something positive happening in our relationship soon. A warning about hidden motives, about Virgil potentially hanging around the wrong crowd. That we’ve got all the tools we need to make the right choice. And—” Patton blushes, just a little. “That we’ll have a happy and fulfilling love life.”

He leaves off the warning of the devil and the lovers—he’ll keep it to himself for now.

“So,” Roman says, “What now? Cora’s not going to help us, and if Virgil’s Uncle’s _delicate_ approach shows anything, it means he definitely doesn’t want us to see him either.”

“What now,” Logan says, “is we get some food from Cora’s, give Patton a filling breakfast, and let him rest. I’ll go to the library and research—maybe there’s some kind of house plan on record, or family history that’ll give us some kind of leverage.”

Roman groans.

“You’re welcome to stay with Patton,” Logan sniffs. “Or conduct some of your own research. _Subtly._ ”

He pulls on his coat and leaves.

* * *

When Logan enters the library, his eye’s immediately drawn to the warped, twisted metal of some of the shelves, the dents in the walls, how small and outdated it is.

“Oh, wow, you’re one of those newcomers, aren’tcha?”

Logan turns and nods at the girl at the front desk.

“Would you be willing to point me towards some kind of archive?” Logan asks politely. “Newspapers, city hall meetings, something.”

She gives him a knowing look. “You’re looking for stuff about Faes, right?”

Logan hesitates, but figures it wouldn’t exactly hurt. He nods.

“They’ve got their own section,” she says dryly, hopping over the desk. “Ruth,” she adds, nodding at him, and leads him over to a beat-up little corner, with an uncomfortable-looking chair, a collection of filing cabinets, and several old journals.

“Microfiche is against the east wall,” she says, and turns to go. She pauses, before she turns back.

“I was in Virgil’s grade in school,” she says. “Went to school with him for eleven years. Is he really as weird as they say? He was mostly just quiet, round me, but by the way Jimmy Kavanagh talked, he’s the devil incarnate. Plus, well,” she says, and points to the warped, twisted metal. “Margot never really talked about it, but the whole town knew it was him, so—”

Logan blinks. The damage doesn’t look like it’s even natural—it’s as if it was left out in a storm, torn asunder by wind and rain, or maybe some kind of sculpture.

“Virgil’s one of the best men I’ve ever known,” Logan says honestly. “Excuse me.”

He turns to the file cabinets, and, after some meddling, pulls out the file of the oldest information—dated back to the 1800s.

He braces himself for a long day of research.

Logan’s deliberating going to get lunch and checking in on Patton and Roman when someone’s boots thunk down on the table, dangerously close to the Victorian-era excuse for files.

Logan looks up to glare and sees an only slightly familiar face grinning at him.

“Heya,” the woman—Gillian, he remembers—says to him. “What’s your name?”

He’s about to say it, when he remembers Virgil telling Gillian that Patton’s name is Puck, for whatever reason. Maybe she uses personal information for fraudulent purposes?

“Logic,” Logan says instead, and Gillian snorts, rolling her eyes.

“C’mon, I only used that trick to rile up Virgil,” she says. “You can tell me. Too much work to steal a name, anyways.”

 _Steal a name?_ Steal his identity, most likely.

“I trust Virgil’s judgment,” Logan says coolly.

“You’re looking through the family history,” she notes. “Where are you at? Maria, or have you gotten to Regina? Ida? You’re definitely not up to Cecelia yet.”

This was an interesting thing too—the Fae line’s matriarchal, rather than patriarchal. It seems to be, entirely, a Fae quirk, amongst the period-typical misogyny of the rest of the town.

“Got any questions?” She asks, and Logan looks at her. The combat boots, paired incongruously with an ankle-long skirt, ripped around the hem with tears going up to her thighs, the even more incongruous glittery top, her hair chopped messy and short, like she did it herself.

“Why should I trust you?” he says, and she hoots with laughter.

“Hey, you got the townie attitude already! Or, wait, did Virgil warn you about me? Say he did, it’d be the sweetest thing he’s said ‘bout me since he was six.”

“He never spoke about you,” Logan says. “Before or after you visiting our apartment, unannounced.”

She pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“You’ve got the usual attitude surrounding me already,” Logan says dryly, sifting through wills and town records (apparently Virgil’s ancestors were quite the delinquents, though at least half of them tended to be targeting them for being women, as most of the accusations were witchcraft, though there were a few concerning parallels between Faes and the mysterious deaths of those around them) and adds in a monotone “Ha,” just to clash with her laughter from before.

“Seriously, though,” she says, knocking her ankle against his, “no questions? None?”

“No,” Logan says.

“Not even about what Dee put in your friend’s tea?”

Logan pauses. There must be something on his face that gives off his hesitation, his curiosity, because she grins.

“You want to know that, don’t you.”

Logan gives her a level look, and says, “Do you know?”

“Course I know,” Gillian says. “Virgil’s not the only one in the family who understands plants, you know? Plus, where d’you think I’m staying? The B&B? You’re in the only room.”

Logan pauses, and says, “Will there be any ill effects?”

“Nope,” she says, cheerful. “Should just make him sleepy, a bit out of it. Should be wearing off by now.”

Logan lets out a soft breath, before he nods, and turns back to the old files.

“What, that’s _it?”_ Gillian says, and she’s definitely irritated now. “Nothing about what Virgil might be hiding from you? I saw the cards—hanging man, devil, and lovers in one—”

Logan closes a journal with a crisp snap and a roll of his eyes. “Great,” he says. “The superstition’s hereditary.”

She _laughs_ at him, then, conspicuously loud in the desolate library.

“Superstition,” she says, and cackles louder. “ _Superstition?!_ Wow. _Wow_ , Uncle told me the gist of things, but I can never really be sure if I’m right with things with him—but _wow._ You really have no idea what you’re walking into, do you?”

Logan pointedly opens the old journal. Not by a Fae, by someone named _Kavanagh,_ like the rude man in the gas station. He’s not going to engage with her anymore. He starts reading about Kavanagh accusing Maria of witchcraft, which seems fitting for the time period.

But then she starts shuffling a tarot card deck she pulls from her bra, and Logan lasts about five seconds.

“Is it a family tradition, or something?” Logan says irritably.

She grins. “Or something.”

“You know, this Kavanagh man accused your ancestor of witchcraft,” he says.

She grins wider. “A tradition that’s continued through the years,” she says, and offers him the deck. “I could do a reading for you if you want.”

Logan wrinkles his nose. “I’d rather not.”

She shrugs and stands. “Fine,” she decides. “I may as well tell you all the warnings. Virgil isn’t gonna break down and see you, because he’s terrified of what’s gonna happen if he does. And Uncle’s more protective over Virgil than he is anything else. If you keep trying to get to him, Uncle’s gonna put worse than those herbs into your system,” she says. “Because Uncle’s capable of some dark shit that you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

“Warning heeded,” Logan says coolly, “and disregarded.”

“Your funeral,” she shoots back, and strides out of the library. The girl who’d showed Logan around before—Ruth—peeks hesitantly out from the desk, once she’s safely gone. And Logan can’t help but overthink.

 _What is it with the people in this town_ , Logan wonders, but then his mind turns to Gillian’s warnings. _Uncle’s gonna put worse than that into your system._

Logan frowns. And frowns some more. Before he shuts the journal again and picks up his coat, heading straight for the bed and breakfast, mind whirling.

“This is going to sound crazy,” he prefaces immediately, “and I’m still trying to piece together the whole of the theory.”

Patton and Roman look over at him, from where they’ve cuddled together on the bed, laptop balanced on both their laps.

Logan sits on the bed, takes a breath, and says, “I think Virgil’s Uncle, and thereby the family business, is in organized crime.”

Roman and Patton share a glance, and Logan winces—because him and _Virgil_ are usually the ones sharing that glance.

“I know how it sounds,” Logan adds. “And I’m not saying it’s certain, but—but _look_. He put something into Patton’s tea to knock him out, and no one seemed fazed when they saw us walking back with him. The whole town is _terrified_ of him. Virgil’s cousin—Gillian—she was at the library, and she told me that if we continue to meddle, Virgil’s Uncle would, and I quote, _put something worse than those herbs into our systems,_ and that he’s capable of _dark shit I clearly wouldn’t understand,_ and that if I disregarded the warnings it would be _my funeral._ Gillian told me outright that she’d steal my name if I gave it to her, which I can only assume is some kind of shorthand for stealing my identity, and—look, the crime counts for Virgil’s ancestors are _ridiculous,_ I’ve barely made it through two generations without fielding several counts of mysterious deaths surrounding their lovers and those who are noted to have wronged them, and _dozens_ of accusations of witchcraft.”

“Okay,” Roman says, “can we back up to the part where Virgil’s cousin _threatened you?_ Like, outright told you it would be _your funeral?_ ”

Logan waves a hand irritably, and says, “I’m fairly certain she was just posturing.”

“You just mentioned the mysterious counts of death, though,” Patton says thoughtfully.

“In the eighteen hundreds—I haven’t gotten much further than that,” Logan admits, “I was going to see if you two wanted lunch before I went back to it, but then Gillian came.”

“Aw, Archi-nerd-es,” Roman says, grinning, “you took a break from research for us? We’re flattered.”

Roman ends up going to grab the easiest thing possible from Cora’s, and Logan takes Roman’s place, curled up against Patton’s side, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“How are you feeling?” Logan murmurs, and Patton snuggles into his side.

“Better, really,” he says reassuringly. “I took a bit of a nap while you were at the library, fixed me right up.”

Logan breathes a sigh of relief, and pets Patton’s hair again, because Patton enjoys such physical, comforting contact. “Good,” he murmurs. “Gillian said that would likely be the case, but. I wanted to be sure.”

“Meeting Gillian really didn’t bother you?” Patton asks, and Logan pauses.

“She seems like a difficult person,” Logan admits. “She tried goading me, I think. It didn’t really work for her. She mentioned—”

Logan pauses, and what Gillian said about Virgil finally catches up.

“What?” Patton asks, squinting up at him.

“I,” he begins, and sighs. Keeping this from either of them would likely poorly impact their approaches to Virgil. “She said that Virgil… that Virgil was terrified of what would happen. If he saw us again.”

Patton’s arms squeeze tighter around him, and he whispers, “I’m so worried about him.”

“I know,” Logan says.

“Why do you think he’s scared?” Patton asks plaintively, and Logan can only shrug.

“We can theorize,” Logan says. “Maybe Virgil’s Uncle dislikes the fact that he’s gay. Maybe the family business is something relating to organized crime and Virgil wanted to go clean, which the family didn’t like, and he thinks he’s protecting us by staying away. Maybe Virgil’s isolating himself and his family’s falling in line to support it, even if it isn’t entirely healthy behavior. Maybe it’s something entirely different. We don’t know. We can only continue to reach out.”

“What if,” Patton says, and he takes in a shaky breath. “What if we see him, and he says he never wants to see us again?”

Logan fights the instinct to say _that wouldn’t happen,_ but he lets out a long breath. “If he does—which I believe is unlikely,” he adds. “Then I suppose all we can do is accept it. Go back to school. Move on.”

“What if I can’t,” he says in a whisper, and Logan tightens his arms around Patton, because Patton clearly needs comfort.

“You can,” Logan says. “Not—it’s not likely that he will. But if he does, you _can._ Roman and I will be there. Okay?”

He’s bad at this. Not debatable. He is bad with emotions and emotional confrontations.

Patton turns his face into Logan, and essentially maneuvers them so he’s practically laying on top of Logan, nose pressed at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. Logan, fumblingly, places his hand on Patton’s hand, scratching at his scalp, doing the best he can. Roman’s better at physical contact than he is—

When Roman walks in with two takeout bags, Patton’s breathing is snuffly and soft and evened out against his skin, in a way that kind of tickles.

“Hey,” Roman says, soft, setting down the takeout bags and nudging off his shoes, before he carefully clambers onto the bed, against Patton’s other side. “He okay?”

“Napping again,” Logan murmurs softly. “And—well, he got a bit upset, because I—well. To put it bluntly, Gillian said that Virgil’s terrified of what’s going to happen if he sees us again. Which was upsetting to Patton, who seems to think that Virgil will decide he never wants to see us again.”

“Aw, Pat,” Roman says, spooning up to Patton’s side, and Patton makes a contented humming noise, buzzing against Logan’s skin.

“Logan,” Roman mumbles.

“Yes?” Logan asks, and Roman twines his fingers with Logan’s, so their hands rest on Patton’s back.

“I just,” Roman begins, and falters, closing his eyes before he opens them again. “I don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

“Roman,” he murmurs, and Roman squeezes his hand.

“He _drugged Patton,_ Logan,” Roman says, and there’s an undercurrent there, an undercurrent of Roman’s voice shaking with rage. “He probably knew we were right outside. What—if he treats us like that knowing there’s a witness—”

Logan’s already squeezing Roman’s hand back, shaking his head as much as he can without dislodging Patton.

“You know what Cora and Gillian said,” Logan says, soft. “He’s protective over Virgil. I—I wouldn’t think he’d hurt him. Hurt us, maybe, to keep us from potentially hurting him. But Virgil’s okay.” _He has to be._

Roman pauses, and lets out a shaky breath, before his eyes focus on Logan again. “Do you want me to log into my old email and show you the stuff Virgil said about his uncle and the family business? If there’s some kind of hint I missed when I was twelve?”

Logan rubs his thumb over Roman’s knuckles. “That would be helpful, thank you. If you or Patton would like to go over those while we’re in the library, while I read through Fae records—"

“Ugh, just me, I think,” Roman says, and shudders theatrically. “ _Twelve-year-old me._ There was… an _abundance_ of copy-paste emojis.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Logan says, and Roman shoots him a playfully injured look.

After Patton wakes up, and they eat the lunch Roman brought from Cora’s, they all go over to the library. Patton takes over reading some of the journals as Logan sorts through city records; apparently, the massive house of Virgil’s is the house Faes have been living in since they came to Ligerion. The counts of witchcraft only fade slightly with the entrance into the twentieth century, which surprises Logan; history, admittedly, is not his main area of interest, but he’d thought the counts would fade in historical comparison to Salem.

Patton frowns a lot at the journals, likely because someone’s ancestors are writing mean things about Virgil’s ancestors. Roman’s scrolling constantly through his laptop, often wincing or putting his face in his hands before he continues reading. There’s the occasional break as they read something interesting, mostly Roman, but Patton does read in the journals about how Virgil’s ancestors could, apparently, appear from out of nowhere, and morph their faces, and more.

Mostly the city records are accounts of crime. Apparently, Virgil’s ancestors got up to some stuff; they apparently just outright ignored prohibition, and there were several counts of public drunkeness, lewdness, and the like, along with the continuous deaths of spouses. By a variety of _very_ odd ways that just provide more evidence towards the organized crime theory. Drowned in the well, lightning strike, freak horse accident. One dropped dead in the midst of the town square.

The librarian introduces herself to Roman and Patton, eventually, and tells them much o the same spiel she told Logan—that she went to school with Virgil, if they need any help or have any questions—

Patton looks up from the journal, and asks, “Why do the Kavanaghs hate the Faes so much?”

Ruth grins, sudden, wider than Logan’s seen in his two days at the library. “Oh, _that_ ,” she says, almost gleeful, before she looks around and sits down at the table.

“So, like, Maria Fae was one of the two women of the thirteen founders of the town, right?”

“Right,” Logan says, because he’d read that. She’d been a woman with a baby and no husband, dressed in black, who wore sapphires until the day she died, commissioned nearly all of the capable people in town to build the house.

“So was a Kavanagh,” she says. “And, like. Maria was an unmarried woman with a baby, super scarlet letter, but she dressed in black, so I think a lot of people assumed she was a widow. Anyways—” she leans forwards. “John Kavanagh tried to instigate, like, a punishment for adultery, because she couldn’t prove that she’d been married, and it could’ve been adultery. So he moved the townspeople to try to shut her in the pillory.”

Roman frowns. “Pillory?”

“More extreme version of the stocks,” Logan says in an undertone. “Usually they were standing, on a platform, so they’d be publically humiliated. Please continue.”

“The day came, and they rushed the house,” Ruth says. “And, well, sexism, so it was supposed to be brutal. Throwing rotten food and dead animals and mud and… excrement, and stuff. A few theories think they were going to try to stone her. Maybe even whip her. But they tried to lock her in—and John Kavanagh got locked in instead.”

They all blink at each other, and Logan says incredulously, “How did they make a mistake of _that_ magnitude?”

“It gets worse,” Ruth says. “So Maria walks away, home free, and Kavanagh’s just screaming after her. And all the townspeople try to unlock Kavanagh—but the device broke. So he was stuck in.”

“ _Stuck,”_ Logan repeats.

“Mhm,” Ruth says. “One of the town founders, locked into the pillory with no way to escape. Outsmarted and tricked by a _woman_ , shame of all shame, and the town was ready to stone someone. So they try to get him out but realize that, one, the mechanism’s broken, and two, they can’t exactly cut him free without endangering him by a _lot._ ” Ruth takes a breath.

“So he stays there for days. Stuck. Can barely eat broth, can’t excuse himself to go to the restroom, screams until he’s hoarse, threatens anyone and everyone into getting him to go free. It’s awful, but there’s some accounts in the old newspaper if you want the grisly details. Eventually, though, Maria wanders into town again, to get some supplies. The story goes, she walked up to the pillory, and didn’t say a word. Just stared at him, square in the eye. Those amber eyes of theirs—Faes, I mean—apparently, she just stared at him. And he died. And suddenly they could unlock it again, to take him away and bury him.” She leans back in her chair. “And everyone in the town started to learn that messing with a Fae was a horrible, horrible idea. _Especially_ for a Kavanagh. But they do it anyway, and it never ends well for them. I’m surprised Jimmy’s only gotten spiders, really—”

“How did she do it?” Logan asks. “How did she manage to get John in the pillory instead—and lose the key? Break it so that he couldn’t get out until he was dead?”

“Spiders,” Roman says, at the same time, and types intently on his laptop.

Ruth shrugs, and spreads her hands. “Magic.”

Logan scoffs.

Rather than laughing it off, as if it’s a joke, Ruth shrugs, grinning.

“Yeah, I know how it sounds,” she says. “But I’ve been around this most of my life, so I’ve seen Virgil do some weird stuff, and those cousins of his are super obvious about it. Anyway, I should probably check the desk, but—if you wanna know more town history, let me know, that’s kind of my thing.”

“ _Magic,”_ Logan says dismissively, already standing. “I’m checking that microfiche. There’s a logical explanation that must have gotten tangled up in the superstitions of the time—”

“Wait,” Roman says. “Spiders. Virgil told me about the spiders—”

Logan pauses, and reads the email over Roman’s shoulder, Patton on his other side.

— _i mean, I guess I’ve done a couple pranks. my cousins are way better at that kind of thing, though, but my older cousin g helped me flood gaston’s house with spiders once because his family and mine have hated each other for YEARS_ —

Roman scrolls over, to his own question in the next email, _how did you flood his house with spiders???? that’s so scary, omg, I’d be terrified, I’m sure he deserved it though  
_ ⊙﹏⊙

 _I was six, it was really mostly g,_ _she’s good at that kind of thing,_ was Virgil’s evasive response.

Logan glances, nods, and says, “Microfiche, then. You two, keep doing what you’re doing. Please don’t get into trouble.”

“How dare you,” Roman says, straight-faced, as if he and Patton have never gotten in trouble in their _lives_.

Logan manages to find the article in the microfiche, but it’s just a little snippet, mostly with the brutal, grisly details; nothing about Maria Fae, herself. After reading it, Logan can see how it’s a point of a family feud. Though in his memory, Logan can’t recall Virgil mentioning Jimmy Kavanagh at all.

He returns, and digs slowly through the journals, working slowly up until present day, until there’s the last one, that’s the most recent. Logan traces the embossed name on the front.

“Is it another Kavanagh,” Patton asks wearily.

“I—no,” Logan says. “No. It’s—it’s Virgil’s father.”

This had been what he was after the whole time—a source _from_ a Fae, not from the townspeople observing them. And Virgil’s father, his Uncle’s brother—

“Oh,” Patton says. “Oh, wow.” Even quieter, “do you think Virgil’s read it?”

Logan hesitates, and Roman says, “Maybe. This section kind of seemed… untouched, though.”

Logan takes a breath and opens the journal.

It starts approximately, according to Virgil’s timeline, five years prior to Virgil’s birth; it’s a thick journal, and not a daily one, and Logan wonders if it’ll go to that point.

For the first couple years, it isn’t exactly scintillating material; he is, after all, a fifteen-year-old boy, even if he is a fifteen-year-old boy in a potential crime family. There’s complaining about school, and chores (even if the chores seem to be a bit unusual; Virgil’s father spends a page or so talking about how he’d had to trap a crow or his mother, which seems… unusual, to say the least. Perhaps the crow was a pest?)

But he talks about how much time he spends at Cora’s, though, and about the girl in his grade, Cora’s niece, Violet, his eventual wife.

— _D seems to think that Violet’s just **awful,** though, so I tend to sneak off whenever he’s in the garden with Mom, which is really the only time she pays attention to us, whenever we can do the work for her with family stuff. I know the curse took dad away, but we’re right here, you know?_

Logan frowns, reads that line again. _I know the curse took dad away._

Fifteen’s a bit old to believe in curses, isn’t it?

“What’s that face?” Patton prompts.

“Oh,” Logan says. “Just—fifteen is too old to believe in a family curse, isn’t it?”

Roman’s head snaps up, and back down again, as he furiously starts to type.

“What?” Patton asks him, then.

“It’s just—I asked Virgil why he never talked about his friends, once,” he says. “And…”

He spins his laptop so they can see.

 _you asked about my real life friends. to be honest,_ _I… well I mean I have auntie c and my uncle but they’re family so they don’t count. my friends are mostly the cats, haha, most of the other kids in town on’t like me much. it’s a pretty long story but basically I’m kinda like. stanley yelnats? from holes? except instead of just affecting me and uncle, it affects the whole town too. but also kinda zero too. it’s a really really long story, but basically most of the town hates me. hates us, I should say, my dad’s side of the family. I think the main reason we aren’t, like, chased out is bc they need the family business, otherwise we’d be like. super gone. plus I guess they’re kinda scared of us, that too. but, uh, I guess to answer your question—I don’t talk about real life friends because I don’t have any._

_anyways, I’ll talk to you later, or whatever. tell me more about the backstage drama._

_-anx_

“Poor Virgil,” Patton murmurs, once he finishes reading.

“They need the family business,” Logan reads aloud. “People have mentioned going to Fae house, but they never talk about what they actually _get_ there. Even Virgil—the closest he’s ever gotten is _anything anyone needs, we can provide, for a price._ Which—” He scowls.

“Is vague,” Roman fills in helpfully.

“Is vague,” Logan agrees, cracking open Virgil’s father’s journal again. “What business needs a teenage boy to capture a crow, and grow a garden of that size, and has available the drugs in Patton’s tea?”

A couple passages later, it reads, _that Kavanagh girl’s accused me and D of witchcraft. I mean, it’s tradition, I guess, but all we did is curse her ears to fall off, and not even permanently! They were back in a week! D says we should have made it permanent but Vi said it probably wouldn’t be a good move. I think D’s gonna try to sneak something into Violet’s water bottle at school or something as revenge, but 1. He’s tried that a dozen times now and 2. she’s got a good eye, she’ll catch him._

Logan reads this passage aloud, incredulous, and Roman shrugs.

“Maybe ears falling off is some kind of slang?” He offers.

“For what?” Logan grumbles. “I’m more concerned about the potentially dozens of times Virgil’s uncle tried to poison Virgil’s _mother.”_

“There’s also the point of Virgil’s Dad never using Virgil’s uncle’s full name,” Patton points out, from where he’s contorted himself in his armchair so his legs stick in the air and his head tilts back to the floor. “The closest we’ve got is Dee, so.”

Logan shakes his head and mutters, “I’m starting to think Virgil’s the only normal person in this town,” before he turns back to the journal.

That is when things go from _slightly odd_ to _very strange._

 _Violet asked me out on a date today,_ is the only sentence written, the rest of the page blank. By Logan’s calculations, he must have been sixteen—and he turns the page to be confronted with cramped handwriting.

 _She’s beautiful, and she’s my best friend. I can’t do this to her. But God, I want to, I want to so bad. D’s running interference, for now, because he’s really the only one who gets it more than me. I don’t know what to do now. Do I avoid her for the rest of my life? Violet would never stand for that, she’s gonna march right up the tower to demand an answer from me. Do I turn her down? She knows how much I care about her, she’d know I was lying, and Violet doesn’t want to be protected from herself. She’s young, we both are, I can’t_ — _I can’t let her do this to herself. Loving a Fae is a death sentence._

Logan reads that line again. _Loving a Fae is a death sentence._ Is this what Virgil thinks? Is this what Faes are raised to believe?

 _Mom’s no help_ — _she’s actually talking to me for once, but it’s just all about Dad and how she had the best times of her life with him. I might have yelled at her, a bit. Okay, a lot. But she gets that I’m not like her, she has to. I don’t want to do this to Violet. I **can’t** do this to Violet. I don’t want to know how the curse is gonna get her. The well? Lightning? Car crash? Something entirely new? I don’t want to know. I **never** want to know._

Logan closes the journal crisply, looking over at Roman and Patton, before he asks, “Dinner?”

As they leave the library—Logan isn’t sure why—but he puts the journal in his bag and smuggles it out.

He can’t stop staring at the wall beyond his boyfriends.

They’ve all crammed into one bed, that night, all crowded around Roman, who’s laying on his back with an arm around both Patton and Logan. Judging by the snuffling noises, the inhaling and exhaling, his boyfriends are both fast asleep.

Logan isn’t. He can’t.

And he’s about to try to do something incredibly stupid.

He slowly extracts himself from the bed and puts on the clothes he’d worn during the day, glancing at the bed periodically as he tugs on his boots and writes a note.

 _Roman and Patton_ —

_Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk._

_-Logan._

It suffices. He shrugs on his coat, slings his satchel over his shoulder, grabs one of the sets of keys, and walks out, treading softly outside.

It’s cold here, and even colder at night. Nowhere is open at night, either; well, Logan wagers the gas station might, but knowing what he knows now, he’d doubt a Kavanagh would welcome him back in, lest Logan transmit the Fae cooties by proxy, or some such ridiculousness. He wonders distantly about doubling back, holing up in his warm room, reading the journal he’s brought along with him.

Instead, his feet turn him to the woods.

He does, of course, understand how some people become afraid of the woods, especially at such a time of night. But such a thing would be foolish; the town’s high crime rate had been, after all, primarily due to Fae outliers that shouldn’t have been counted.

And then stupidly, _stupidly,_ he starts to walk down the bluestone path.

Logan raises his hand and knocks on the door.

Almost immediately, despite the late hour, the door opens.

Virgil’s Uncle grimaces. “I was so _sad_ to think you’d left town,” he sneers, before he steps aside, offering Logan a path in. Logan walks in, and says brusquely, “You’ll understand if I deny your offer of a nightcap.”

“I wouldn’t, actually,” Virgil’s Uncle says, and sits at the kitchen table. Logan sits across from him, back to the rest of the house. He wonders, only for a moment, if Virgil’s awake too.

Logan pauses, staring at him, before he takes a breath in.

“I know the appearance of your face is likely a skin condition coupled with either an ocular abnormality, or you decided to lean into the snake metaphors and added a contact,” Logan says bluntly. “I know that you have, quite literally, locked Virgil up into a tower for most of his life to prevent him coming to any perceived harm. I know that for whatever reason, tarot cards and similar occult activities are part of the family history. I know that you,” Logan says, and fluidly removes Virgil’s father’s journal from his satchel, even as he sees Virgil’s Uncle look as if the air’s been knocked out of him, eyes widening. “Apparently _the curse keeps him from saying anything he actually means, but I get him pretty well. The rest of the world, however, does not.”_

“Where did you get that,” Virgil’s Uncle breathes, fists tight. Logan ignores him.

“So I understand that I cannot trust a word out of your mouth,” he continues. “However, the repeated application of curses, and witchcraft. That’s what I don’t understand. Cora has seemingly decided to leave things up to you. So I can’t ask you, clearly, because you will lie to me. I can’t ask Gillian, because I don’t trust her. There is only one Fae who I actually trust. I figured I would start with the polite route. I would like to see Virgil, please.”

“This is your attempt at a polite route?” Gillian snorts, from the cover of darkness, emerging just enough so the light could hit her red hair.

“Your attempt at a polite route was attempting to steal my name, telling me my boyfriend had been drugged, and minimalizing my efforts to understand,” Logan says. “If we’re going based on comparison—”

“Harsh, braniac,” Gillian says, and glances at Virgil’s Uncle. “You want me to, ya know.” She wiggles her fingers.

Virgil’s Uncle surveys Logan, tilting his head. “You said he’s—”

“Yeah, I know,” Gillian says. “Your empathy’s pretty low there, _Logic._ Might just max me out to make you feel something. Hope you appreciate it.”

Logan frowns. “What—” he begins, but he can’t say anymore when Gillian’s icy cold fingers brush against the back of his neck.

* * *

Roman’s woken up by the sound of sobbing.

It’s enough to immediately strike out any sense of sleepiness that he could have had, and he sits up immediately, and blinks.

He’s never seen Logan’s face get that blotchy before.

He’s never actually seen Logan _cry_ before.

“Whoa,” Roman says, scrambling out of bed, which is enough to wake Patton, “whoa, whoa, _hey,_ Logan, Lo Lo Lo. Are you okay?”

“I,” Logan chokes out, and gasps, “I don’t know what she _did to me,”_ and bursts into a fresh round of tears.

“Can I touch—”

Logan’s already yanking Roman in, though, burying his face into Roman’s bare chest as Roman wraps his arms around Logan tight, exchanging a panicked look with Patton. This was never how it worked. Patton or Roman were the big criers in their relationship, he had never, not _once_ , seen Logan admit that he was feeling any emotion other than _frustrated_ or _stressed._ It feels downright unnatural, hearing Logan cry, cry genuine and deep, crying with his whole heart.

Logan’s hugging is clumsy, just like how his sobbing seems to be clumsy—like he doesn’t quite remember how to cry and breathe, so there’s sobbing jags which ends with him gulping in a desperate lungful of air. He chokes on it, a couple times, and can only cry more.

Roman _hates this._ He hates Patton crying, and he’s only seen Virgil cry once, sulky and self-loathing and furious at himself, and he’d hated it then too, even when he’d still half-hated him. Logan’s upsets were small and difficult to see, sometimes exploding into outbursts, but _never_ outbursts like this. He can only lean to pick Logan up and distribute him gently onto the bed, where he immediately clings to Patton as Roman slides in behind him, as Patton makes nonsense shushing noises coupled in with _it’s gonna be okays,_ scratching gently at Logan’s scalp, and Roman presses himself against Logan’s back (cold) and wraps his arms around his waist.

The only things that move are Patton’s hands through his hair, his mouth with the soft murmurings, and Logan when his body’s wracked by sobs, coming in irregular and intense, like tremors, shaking Logan all up inside so that he couldn’t even _speak._

Roman’s grip tightens around Logan’s waist, and he presses a kiss against the back of his neck.

And, all at once, Logan slumps, spent, and Patton asks “Logan?” panicked, shoving his hair out of his face.

“That’s exhausting,” Logan says, hoarse. “I _hated_ that. How do people actually enjoy emotional release?”

“Because it’s an emotional _release,”_ Roman says, propping himself up on his elbow and looking closely at Logan’s face as Logan scrubs hastily at his face with his sleeve.

“Are you okay?” Patton asks, soft and concerned. “Did something happen?”

Logan hesitates, and says, in the same hoarse voice, “I don’t know how she did that.”

“Who?” Patton asks. “Gillian? How did you run into _Gillian?”_

Logan curls up tighter, and Roman tugs the covers over them, thinking of how cold he’d been.

“Well,” Logan says, weakly. “I didn’t exactly. Run into her on accident.”

It takes a couple seconds to click.

Patton gasps. “You went back _alone?!”_

“I didn’t eat anything,” Logan continues, the same weak, thready, exhausted undertone in his voice. “Or drink anything. I tried to… I tried to talk to him. Virgil’s Uncle, I mean, I brought the journal, but she—” he shakes his head. “I don’t know what she _did_ to me.”

“Go back to the start,” Patton advises.

Logan shudders, but he speaks.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. “So I decided to go for a walk. And I ended up… well, I ended up going down the bluestone path. Knocked on the door. He was up at this hour, for whatever reason, and he let me in. So I started… addressing him, I suppose. I told him that I knew he’s a pathological liar—there’s something accounting that in Virgil’s father’s journal—and… a couple other things. I brought out the journal, to show him. I don’t think he knew the library had it. And Gillian came out of the darkness, and she said—” He takes a breath. “She said, _your empathy’s pretty low there. Might just max me out to make you feel something.”_

“Logan,” Patton murmurs, but Logan shakes off his attempts at comfort.

“And then she… she put her fingers against the back of my neck. Like this,” he says, and reaches up to brush against Patton’s nape with his fingers. “And I just… I couldn’t stop _crying._ I couldn’t—” he shakes himself, and says in a hoarse whisper, “How did she do that?”

“I don’t know,” Patton says. “A drug wouldn’t do that, would it?”

Logan’s already shaking his head. “Not with the sudden come down I had,” he says, and twists his head to look at Roman. “I think it’s because…” he grimaces. “I know how this sounds, but I think it’s because you kissed my neck. Something about the affected area.”

“What, like true love’s kiss?” Roman asks, and immediately kicks himself. _True love’s kiss,_ they’ve barely been dating for not even a month, it’s way too fast—

But Logan’s cheeks tinge pink, and he turns his face into Patton’s chest.

Roman grins, despite the fact that Logan had been sobbing hysterically just a few minutes ago and leans to press another kiss to the nape of his neck.

Eventually, Patton’s gently coaching Logan into trying to sleep again (“crying drains you out, okay? trust me, I’d know”) and Roman slides out of bed.

“I’ll grab something to eat, if you want,” Roman says. “After Logan’s nap.”

It’s a sudden swap of how it’d been a couple days ago; Patton had been the one snuffling into Logan’s chest, and now it was the other way round.

“Not tired,” Logan mumbles into Patton’s chest.

“Sure thing, nerd-coleptic,” Roman says, reaching over to rub his back. “I’ll get something that’ll taste good even if it has to wait a while to be eaten. Keep an eye on him, Pat, okay?”

Patton winks at him, and says, “ _Eye_ - _eye_ , captain.”

Logan groans, and Roman chuckles, tugging on a shirt and his coat before heading over to Cora’s.

Only to stop in his tracks.

“ _You,”_ Roman declares furiously, storming up to the counter Gillian’s leaning against. “What did you _do to him?!”_

Gillian rolls her eyes, and says, “Did either of you figure it out yet?”

“I kissed him on the back of the neck,” Roman snaps, “ _What did you DO?!”_

“No need to get _shouty,_ ” Gillian says. “You look less hot when you’re shouty. I’m an empath, theater-for-brains.”

The wires in Roman’s brain shorts out. “What?” He says, frowning, and Gillian rolls her eyes.

“Here’s the—” Cora falters, and glances at Roman, before she tells Gillian, “Here’s the food, Gillian. And the receipt.”

Gillian frowns. “No Fae discount?”

“That only applies to my favorites,” Cora says. “Which you ain’t.” She turns to Roman, and says, much warmer, “How can I help you, honey?”

Roman can’t help but shoot Gillian a smug grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gillian says, and reaches out, cupping his face. “Laugh it up.”

She strides out of the diner as Roman finds himself bent double, laughing so hard it doesn’t even make a sound anymore.

Cora quickly reaches over, brushes a hand against his cheek, and Roman stops.

“What,” he gasps, trying to gain his breath, wiping under his eyes, “was _that.”_

“Leave it to her to let the cat out of the bag,” Cora says. “She told you, hon. She’s an empath.”

“That’s—” Roman begins, before it hits him.

 _T_ _hat Kavanagh girl’s accused me and D of witchcraft_ —

 _“—_ _Look, the crime counts for Virgil’s ancestors are ridiculous, I’ve barely made it through two generations without fielding several counts of mysterious deaths surrounding their lovers and those who are noted to have wronged them, and dozens of accusations of witchcraft_ _—”_

“ _—_ ** _Magic_** _,”_ _Logan says dismissively_ _—_

_“—I didn’t know you knew coin magic too.” Patton's piping voice echoes down the hall._

_“I know all kinds of magic,” Virgil says—_

“Okay. All right, hon, that’s it, right on the barstool, there ya go.”

Roman looks at Cora, and says hoarsely, “ _Magic?”_

Cora worries her lip between her teeth. “Yes,” she says, at last. “Magic.”

Roman gets out his phone, and he makes a call.

Cora explain it to tell Logan at least fifteen times before he accepts it, but the more and more Roman thinks about it, the more it makes sense. The tarot cards, the weird spacing out, the family business, the way Virgil’s coffee never seemed to get too cold and the cats seemed to love him and Virgil knew exactly what to do with the cat who gave birth in his bathtub— _the boy he loves is magic._

And cursed. That part… makes more sense of why he ran away from them, now. Roman couldn’t imagine living with that kind of fear.

“We have to tell Virgil we know,” Roman says immediately, once they’ve taken lunch and grabbed a booth.

“How,” Logan says, irritably. “Gillian’s there, she’ll—and Virgil’s Uncle—and if they really are _magic_ —”

Roman takes a napkin and starts to sketch.

“Okay,” Roman says. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

* * *

Virgil’s starting to lose count of the days.

He’s eating because Uncle shoves bags of food from Cora’s at him. He’s sleeping because he rarely leaves his bed. Most of his social communication comes from Crow, who rarely leaves his room and has formed a semi-permanent rumbling warm spot on his stomach.

It’s night, that much is clear. The candles in his room are lit. He’s not sure if he did that with a wave of his hand or if Uncle came into his room while he was napping.

Virgil only lifts his head when there’s a crash that comes from downstairs, but only slightly. Virgil frowns, hesitates, and lays his head back down in his pillow.

“Do you want me to check?” Crow asks, leaping softly down from his bed and stretching.

“Please,” he says hoarsely, and she jerks her cat-chin towards the glass of water on his nightstand before she slinks out of his room. He takes the glass, and takes a sip, and then starts to gulp it down when he realizes how dry his throat is.

He wipes his face with his arm, and frowns at the empty glass, before he starts to rifle through the latest (cold) bag of Cora’s food. She’s sent him extra sweets instead of extra vegetables, which is truly just a sign of how bad she feels for him. And little written updates about when any of them step into the diner (usually Roman.) He can bear to read them sometimes.

He might even shower, soon. The world’s his oyster.

There’s a banging at the window, and Virgil frowns, before looking back at the food. Probably the wind.

More banging. Virgil sighs, before he heads over.

Immediately he gasps and throws open the window.

“Roman, you _idiot,”_ Virgil says furiously, “what are you _doing?!”_

Roman looks up again. “The magic boy, all locked up in his tower,” Roman said, trying to smile like none of that sentence affected him at all. “And you teased _me_ about being too overinvested in fairytales. I don’t wanna hear it from you ever again, Eugene Fitz-hurt-bert.”

“I—” Virgil says, before he reaches down and grabs the collar of Roman’s shirt, hauling him inside. He might be trying to separate himself from them, but magic help them, Virgil still _loves_ him.

“Woo,” he says, shaking out his hands. “Thanks, it’s chilly out there.”

“Roman,” Virgil says, and his voice breaks. “Roman, what are you _doing_ here?”

Roman licks his lips, hesitates, and says, “You said you wouldn’t do this again.”

“What?”

“Leave me without an explanation.”

Virgil closes his eyes, and turns away, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle, trying to defend against the wave of emotion that washes over him just then. God, being in love _sucks._

“Virgil,” Roman says, and he coos, “ _Virgil_ ” and steps back into his line of sight. “Virgil, it’s _okay,_ I—we know what’s going on now, okay?”

Virgil snorts.

“That you’re magic,” Roman elaborates. “And that you have a curse on you. We _know._ Okay?”

“Then you have your explanation,” Virgil says hoarsely. “That’s why I left. That’s why you have to _stay away.”_

There’s another, louder, crash from downstairs, and it suddenly clicks.

“Oh my God,” Virgil says. “Oh, my _God,_ are Logan and Patton _wrecking my house?”_

“I actually don’t know _exactly,”_ Roman says cautiously. “They’re just supposed to distract your Uncle and Gillian—”

“They’re going to _kill them,”_ Virgil says, and flings open the door, and steps straight into the living room, nearly running straight into Patton’s chest.

“Virgil!” He squeaks. “Oh, _Virgil_ —”

“Wait, this is—this is _downstairs,_ your house is magic too?” Roman demands, stepping after and shutting the door behind him.

“Logan’s right behind me,” Patton pants, “I—”

Patton is nearly knocked over by the force of Logan running into his back, and Virgil has to catch him.

Logan looks at him. “ _Virgil,”_ he says, and falls immediately silent.

“Hi,” Virgil says hoarsely. “So, um. How did that. How did that realization go over?”

“Honestly,” Logan says, “it wasn’t until your Uncle sicced the snakes on us until I actually believed it.”

Virgil has to bury his face in his hands again, and groans, before uncovering his face.

“You guys need to _leave,”_ Virgil says weakly. “I—I get that you might have been… _concerned_ , but you guys realize I have good reason now, right? So you need to go. Right now.”

“Have you been eating?” Patton says, disregarding him entirely, and Virgil drags his hands down his face.

“I’m _fine,”_ he says. “You three will continue to be fine if you _get out of town._ I—go back to school, I’ll pay my share of rent, you can find a subleaser, but—”

“You are not fine,” Logan says, frowning, “the bags under your eyes are much heavier than usual.”  
“Will you three _listen to me?!”_ Virgil explodes, and there’s a knock at the door, and he turns to see his Uncle, expressionless.

“Should I,” he begins, and falls silent.

“I was just telling them to—” Virgil says.

“Sorry, but that’s not happening,” Roman bursts in. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“You don’t _get it,”_ Virgil says.

“Could we have some privacy, please?” Logan asks lowly, and Uncle turns to Virgil.

“I—just for a bit,” Virgil says, at last. “And if you see Crow, send her here. Please.”

Uncle frowns. “Don’t remember your history,” he says at last, before he steps away, closing the door behind him.

Virgil takes a deep breath and looks at them.

“I’m going to kill you,” Virgil tells the three of them, voice only a bit watery.

“That’s not true,” Patton says, soft.

“It _is,”_ Virgil says tightly. “Back to the nineteenth century. I can’t—I can’t _stop_ this.”

“Has it ever affected three people at once?” Logan says fairly, and Virgil swallows.

“It might if—” Virgil hesitates, but plows forward. “It might if a Fae did a true love spell.”

Uncle had been furious when Virgil had gasped out the explanation when he’d gotten home. The yelling had nearly shaken the dust from the rafters.

They look at each other. “True love spell?” Roman says.

Virgil takes a shaky breath. “One of the only rules growing up was not to do a complicated spell,” he says. “I ignored it. I found a true love spell when I was seven, and I—I tripled the ingredients. I thought I was putting in things that would contrast in just one person, but—” He gestures feebly to the three of them.

They look at each other, surprised, before they turn back to Virgil.

“You _wished_ for us,” Patton says, sappy.

“I _made you,”_ Virgil says. “I twisted you into creation, I doomed you to—”

Logan frowns. “There’s records of our existence before we were _seven.”_

“Magic is powerful,” Virgil says, hoarse. “Maybe I put those memories in your head. How would you know?”

“You might have power, Virgil,” Logan says, “but I highly doubt you were _that_ powerful at seven.”

Virgil’s shaking his head, though, because Logan doesn’t understand. Logan’s smart, but he wouldn’t _understand._ Faes understand Faes. No one else.

“Okay,” Patton says. “I—Virgil, staying away from us isn’t going to make you love us any less. It isn’t going to make _us_ love _you_ any less. It’s just going to make everyone miserable.”

“We won’t know unless I _try,”_ Virgil says, hoarse.

Patton reaches forwards, but Virgil steps hastily out of his reach. If Patton tries to touch him or hug him right now, he’ll fold. He can’t do that.

“Virgil,” Patton says. “Trust me. I would know. _Staying away from someone does not make you love them any less.”_

Virgil’s eyes close, and he wraps his arms around himself again.

“Virgil,” Roman says, his voice soft. “We’re out of balance, without you. We were right last year. We work, but not as _well._ I—we can’t—” He breathes, deep, and says, “Please come home.”

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut. He resists the urge to clap his hands over his ears.

“Please come home,” Logan repeats, soft. “I—it’s _impossible_ to run herd on them alone, Virgil. We _miss_ you.”

“Plus,” Roman adds, “you know how stubborn we all are, we’re just going to keep having this conversation over and over and over again.”

“How would I—” Virgil says, and shakes his head. “No. I’m not giving in. You will _die_ if I give in. I couldn’t—” There’s a lump in his throat. “I couldn’t _survive_ that. My first three friends in the world, I can’t—you can’t make me be what kills you. _Please_ don’t make me be what kills you.”

“Virgil,” Logan says, voice soft. “We’re _different._ The curse has never worked on anyone gay, let alone anyone with multiple partners. If it truly is a curse for your true love, _singular,_ then—then the fact that you used a spell to make yourself have three might have outsmarted it.”

Virgil’s shaking his head. “You can’t outsmart it,” he says. “You can’t. That’s how my father died, you can’t—”

“We’re not suggesting outsmarting it,” Logan backtracks. “We’re suggesting… circumventing it. Do you know how the curse was placed?”

There’s something absurd about Logan using his usual scholarly voice to talk about magic, something in Virgil’s brain thought, but he’s too upset to acknowledge it.

“No,” Virgil says. “Great-great-whatever-grandma took that secret to the grave. And some Faes have skills inclined towards necromancy, but no one’s—no one’s managed to contact her about it.”

“Necromancy,” Logan says blankly, before he shakes himself. “ _Right._ But—if you don’t know—it could have had terms. _Singular_ true love. _Opposite sex_ true love. Your family operates in the gray area, doesn’t it?”

Virgil grimaces, because, well, it’s true.

“Virgil,” Patton says, eyes at full puppy power, “ _please._ Please. Can we at least… try? We don’t know if it’s true love. Not yet. Can’t we just try?”

Virgil’s eyes close. He knows, though. He knows it is. The spell says so.

“Anx,” Roman says, and Virgil’s eyes swivel towards him. He steps closer. This time, Virgil doesn’t back away.

“Please. _Please,_ it’s hurting all of us if you stay away. If you stay with us, at least—at least we can be happy _now._ ”

Virgil looks away, and blinks hard, and at last there’s the tears coming down his cheeks.

“Can I kiss you?” Roman whispers, and Virgil’s eyes snap to him. Barely, imperceptibly, he nods.

Roman’s hands cup his cheeks, and he uses his thumbs to wipe away Virgil’s tears, before he leans in.

It’s soft. Gentle. Nothing like what Virgil imagined Roman would kiss like—his lips, soft and lush and a bit cold against his. He pulls away, and Logan steps forwards next.

“May I kiss you,” he says formally, and Virgil chokes on a laugh, but nods.

Logan tips his chin up a little, before kissing him the same way Roman kissed him—soft, and gentle, and his lips are just a bit chapped, but warm.

Patton, last, and they both laugh wetly at each other, Virgil at last reaching up to wipe at the tears on his cheeks.

“Can I—” Patton begins, before he rushes forwards.

This is, however, exactly how he figured Patton would kiss—eager, and fullhearted, all clashing lips and feeling the curve of his smile against his mouth.

They pull back, and Virgil laughs a little.

“Okay,” he whispers, before he nods. “Okay.”

There’s still a question, though, and one Virgil won’t be able to answer for all the long, happy years to come.

He has no idea which one of them got the good kisser part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading my big bang story! again, i was paired up with [an-anxious-acquaintance,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/177290354786/an-anxious-acquaintance-heres-every-piece-i-did) who made such lovely art, please go take a look. journalanxiety on tumblr also made some art[ here,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/post/178360556666/journalanxiety-some-fanart-of-for-lovelylogans) please look!  
> tumblr is also [lovelylogans!](lovelylogans.tumblr.com)


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